


hello my old heart

by sunsetdawn (abominablesnowlinski)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Descriptions of Anxiety, Dissociation, Eventual Smut, Exes to Lovers (if you squint), Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Getting Together, Glenn Fraldarius Lives, Holidays, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Ferdinand/Mercedes, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Performance Anxiety (like with music), Slow Burn, background Dimitri/Dedue, discussion of minor character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 54,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28871292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abominablesnowlinski/pseuds/sunsetdawn
Summary: He hasn’t looked at Sylvain’s eyes since he’d gotten here, not really, or at least not like this. It’s funny; for how long he’s seen them, Felix probably couldn’t have recalled the color if someone had asked. Such an oddly light brown shade, nearly like his cello. It was everywhere in his life. Maybe that’s why it had escaped him.It’s nearly frustrating, to think he could have forgotten something so important, and yet that thought makes him more frustrated still. Wasn’t that the goal, to forget all about Sylvain Gautier?After barely finishing his undergrad studying cello performance, Felix is stuck in every aspect of his life: his career is going nowhere, he can't stand talking to his family, and he has maybe two friends. Crashing at Ingrid's apartment was all he had, until she suddenly decided to let world-traveling, friend-abandoning, breakout New York Times author of the year Sylvain Gautier crash with them, too. To make matters worse, she panicked and lied to her father by saying Sylvain and Felix were dating. Now, Felix can't run away from his art, family, Sylvain, or himself.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 50
Kudos: 80
Collections: The Three Houses AU Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's wild to be finally sharing this! I've been working on this story since July of 2020, and somewhere along the way I decided to commit to the FE3H AU Bang and had the honor of being matched with the absolutely phenomenal [Alicja](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei) who has created all the art you'll see in this fic! Please go and check out the rest of her fantastic work, I can't stress enough how lucky I am to have worked with her on this.
> 
> Along with Alicja, I'd like to thank [Jasmine](https://twitter.com/ixidem), [Madison](https://armeef.tumblr.com/), and [Spinner](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/works) for being my personal cheerleaders and helping me write this fic! Life certainly, uh, got a little wild for me in the middle of this, and their support was more than I could have dreamed for. I'd also like to give a huge thank you to [Grey](https://twitter.com/almyranpine) for beta reading this chapter (as well as future ones)!

Felix breathes in slowly, languidly gliding his arm back, the tug of bow hair against string a familiar tension singing in return. He leans with the motion, left hand flitting across his cello’s fingerboard as he goes, dictating a smooth slur of notes into the space around him. The vibrations buzz up against his years-old calluses, wordlessly confirming each note, a partner responding to each step in kind. Eyes closed, he focuses on the pressure of his up bow, keeping his wrist loose and controlled as he feels the swell of the phrase, readying himself to transition into the next.

He breathes out, pressing firmly into the sharp tug of the down beat, and flicks his eyes open to the sheet music. He immediately gravitates to the upcoming measure and counts, _one, two, three, one two_ —

His fingers clench, frozen into uselessness, and a harsh sharp note sluices out. Frustration surges through him, white-hot and still fueled from his last six attempts at this transition. Felix shouts, a wordless, strangled noise that does nothing to calm his pumping heart rate. He smacks his wrist against the side of Ingrid’s worn dining chair, the screw of his bow carving further into the mark he’s been unintentionally deepening over the months.

Felix leans over the back of the chair, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead and takes in a series of measured breaths. He’s nearing the fourth hour marker of this practice session, but it may as well have been ten minutes for the amount of progress he’s made. He carefully stretches his legs out forward, bending around his cello, and forces himself to focus on the pull of his calf muscles. He can hear Byleth scolding him for going well over an hour without a break to walk around. _Your playing is every part physical as it is mental_ , she scolds their section. _You cannot convince your body to go beyond its limits_.

“Good thing this is well within my limits,” He mutters, frown deepening as if Byleth could see him. Letting out another irritated sigh, he sits up in the chair, adjusting his instrument back into place. He had played an excerpt of this piece before, during the summer program after his third year of university. There should be no reason the entirety of it is stumping him now.

 _Maybe I’m trying too hard to isolate this section_. He reaches out and flips several pages back, determined to get through the piece. He has about a half hour before Ingrid returns, and the prospect of stopping for the night without having conquered this roadblock looms over him in a way he knows will mock him all night. He breathes in.

He’s been playing the cello for nearly all his conscious years. This is not the first time a piece has fought against him, and it will not be the last.

He breathes out and presses his bow to string.

Slower, richer notes fill up the space around Felix. The luxurious tone of the cello is on full display with this piece, the very reason he was enraptured by it years ago. Popper’s Requiem, Op. 66, written for three cellos, but Felix can still hear the other parts in his memories as he plays. He shifts down the fingerboard, rocking his hand through the vibrato of a sustained note, the sound rolling out of his instrument. This section was familiar, the motions easy as he let them be. If he didn’t overthink it, it’d go perfectly; he knew this.

Still, anxiety spikes in his lungs with his next breath, followed by a fierce rush of contempt and a determination to press through. Felix closes his eyes once more, willing his pulse to align with his counting as he reaches the section and plays the first measure—

— and promptly _whips_ his bow across the room as what must be a rhino collides with the front door as a way of knocking.

“Fuck, Ingrid!” Felix yells, clutching onto his cello with a force that surely isn’t good for it. “Just open the damn door!” There’s no immediate response, which Felix takes as Ingrid gloating in victory for messing with him. It’s not like she hasn’t come home to him practicing in the living room before; this space has the best acoustics, after all (aside from the bathroom, but she shut that down when she caught him trying to fit a dining chair in the standing tub just two days after he moved in).

He leans over to carefully rest his instrument on its side, trying to push back against the residual frustration in his chest. _Ingrid’s just having fun_ , he reminds himself, _she doesn’t know you were about to finally play the section that you’ve been stuck trying to get through for hours_. _It isn’t her fault she’s terrible_.

Feeling not very mollified at all, he stands and starts to move to pick up his discarded bow when the knocking from hell starts again. Felix jumps significantly less this time, but cuts a deep frown as he snatches up his bow. “What!” He yells in response. “Don’t tell me you lost your keys!”

When he first moved in, Ingrid insisted he have his own set of keys cut rather than take the spares because _what if we both lose ours, Felix, then we’ll be homeless and no one will keep your cello in a heat-monitored environment,_ so it isn’t the end of the world if her keys are gone, but it does regrettably mean she’d get to gloat once more about her instincts being correct. He’s wondering how to change his argument to still be in the right when she knocks on the door again. “I’m coming! Calm down!”

As he reaches for the door, Felix quickly checks over his bow. “You couldn’t have called?” He starts, determining its condition is still pristine, “Or, hell, knocked like a—”

His words go silent in his throat, like they always seem to do when in the presence of Sylvain Gautier.

The very word thief himself smiles wide. “Hey, handsome.”

Felix slides the deadbolt in when he slams the door shut.

He can hear Sylvain’s muffled voice through the door, but his brain can’t seem to process any of it. _Surely this isn't happening_ , he thinks. _What on earth is he doing here?_

Sylvain starts knocking again and Felix jumps away from the door as if he’d been burnt. He looks down at his hands, his bow visibly trembling in his grip. Right, he’d been— he was practicing.

Anger bubbles through the white noise in Felix’s head as he remembers. Was Sylvain capable of doing anything besides ruining Felix’s plans? When Sylvain knocks again, Felix finally tunes into whatever he’s saying.

“—to her instead? Come on, say something.”

“Fuck off,” Felix growls out. The knocking stops, and for a blissful moment, Felix thinks maybe Sylvain did turn right back around, but then he hears a loud sigh through the door.

“Pleasant as always. Look, don’t say I didn’t try.”

A thousand questions fly through his head, but before he can land on one, the grating sound of his phone vibrating on the coffee table cuts into the room. Felix feels the sense of dread press down against his shoulders as he realizes that could only be Ingrid, as no one else is set to bypass his phone’s Do Not Disturb when he’s practicing. When he flips his phone over in his hand, the caller ID shows a blurred, hyper-zoomed photo of Ingrid drunkenly choking on KFC.

Felix rejects the call. She immediately calls again. He rejects again, and his phone asks if he wants to block the number. He seriously considers it.

Moments later, he hears Sylvain’s laugh, a short, sharp sound that makes his stomach churn. “Dude, you know she’s not going to stop.”

“Don’t call me dude,” he shoots back on instinct. His phone vibrates again, and Felix weighs the choice between answering her and or listening to Sylvain through a door.

He exhales through his nose and picks up as he walks down the hall.

“Oh my _god_ , you shut the door on him?”

He winces and pulls the phone back away from his ear. “Stop yelling. Yes.”

“Felix!” She continues to yell, “That’s— you can’t just— you realize that’s rude? Right? Surely you’ve picked up on that by now?”

He glances back down the hallway. He can still see the edge of his cello, lying on the floor. It occurs to him that he’s still got his bow in his other hand, the shape of the grip digging into his palm. “Why is he here?”

Ingrid’s quiet, then, which only makes the mess of things inside of him tighten. He jumps to worst case scenarios, but he can’t think of anything worse than Sylvain showing up unannounced where he lives in the first place.

“I wanted to tell you in person, so…” Ingrid pauses for a moment. “Well, don’t hang up, is my point. Okay?” When Felix says nothing, she continues. “Sylvain’s going to be staying with us for awhile.”

The static from the phone line matches his brain.

He tries to say… something, he doesn’t even know _what_ , but his mouth feels awkward, like it’s not quite connected to the same nerves it was moments ago.

Ingrid’s voice, quiet and distant, hums from his phone, and he weakly brings it back to his ear.

“Are you still there? Felix?” He grunts an affirmative. “I’m really sorry you had to see him alone. He was supposed to wait until I got back but clearly he didn’t.” She makes an irritated noise, and he hears the chime of her car’s lock. “I know you’re freaking out, I’m sorry. I can handle it all when I get there.”

The pity in her voice is infuriating. “I’m not freaking out. I’m just pissed. Don’t know why, though, when this is typical for the two of you.”

“What does that mean?” All traces of the softness Ingrid had are gone now.

“What does it matter?” He spits. In truth, he doesn’t even know what he was talking about— he still feels like he’s falling, like he’s trying to catch onto something, anything. “He’s not staying here.”

He can hear Ingrid slam her car door shut. “Yes, he is. We’ll talk when—”

“No.”

“ _Yes_.” Ingrid’s tone is harsh and final. “It’s my apartment, Felix. He’s staying here, so deal with it. I’ll be there in ten.”

The call ends with a cold chime when Ingrid hangs up on him. He leans against the hallway wall, shoulder hitting it hard with a thud, and slowly releases another long breath. What the fuck is he going to do about this? He can’t afford his own place yet, and he sure as hell can’t go back to live with his family and Dimitri. Staying in Buffalo is off the table since Ingrid will hunt him down if he stays in the state of New York, which means he couldn’t ask Annette or Ashe.

Sylvain’s loud knocking interrupts Felix considering the possibility of hitchhiking with a cello all the way to Chicago.

“I get you don’t want me to come in, but can you at least give a guy safe passage to the bathroom?” Sylvain shouts. Felix does nothing. “I’ve really got to pee, man, please give me some amnesty here.”

His phone buzzes with a text message from Ingrid, and he doesn’t have to open it to guess what she’s asking.

Felix shoves himself off the wall and reaches the door in a few purposeful strides. Sylvain actually looks shocked when he swings the door open.

“You should have stopped to piss at a gas station.” Felix thinks it’s an amicable greeting, all things considered.

Sylvain stares at him, a single line across his forehead as he clearly makes some decision, and then shoves Felix with his duffel bag as he enters the apartment. “Lick my ass, Fraldarius.”

He can feel his face heat up in response, so he forces himself to focus on shutting the door behind Sylvain instead of doing something ridiculous like shoving Sylvain back as if they were kids on a playground again. _For fuck’s sake, Felix, keep it together_.

He hears Sylvain walk further into the apartment and his father's chiding rushes back to him. “Don’t walk around with your shoes—”

When he turns back, Sylvain looks down to the floor where his boots are already neatly placed on the mud rack. He wordlessly raises a smarmy eyebrow when Felix follows the direction of his gaze.

“Whatever,” Felix mutters bitterly, feeling his face get hotter. There’s a decent chance he may die before Ingrid returns.

Sylvain laughs, since he’s a terrible asshole of a human, but Felix can’t even process how much he hates him because of the way his mind short-circuits at the sight of it all: Sylvain’s grin, wide and loose in his calculated way, the corners of his eyes squinting with cockiness, and too many freckles for him to have been in town for very long.

It’s infuriating how immediately familiar Sylvain is.

Even still, there’s something entirely foreign about seeing Sylvain’s tall frame turn and start to explore Ingrid’s living room. Felix shifts his weight between his feet, suddenly unsure of what to do with his arms. He’s still holding his goddamn bow, too, and he probably looks ridiculous.

Sylvain glances back over his shoulder at him and Felix looks away quickly, starting to fiddle with the tightness of his bow. “So, you’ve been here awhile, yeah?

He risks a sharp glare of a glance up at Sylvain. “I thought you had to pee.”

“Got over it,” he responds, and Felix can see him shrug out of the corner of his eye. Another moment passes and he looks up, cautiously tracking Sylvain as he starts to move through the room again. He fiddles with some of the little trinkets Ingrid’s got displayed across the shelves, flicks the disgustingly kitsch horse lamp on and off again with an amused grin. Part of him wants to slap his hands away before he breaks anything, but the much larger part of him that’s still racing a mile a minute keeps him put.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t wondered what he’d do, what they’d both do, if he saw Sylvain again. But most of those times it was just Felix punching Sylvain, or throwing a coffee on Sylvain, or publicly yelling at Sylvain, or any other garden variety of catharsis. It’s much harder to imagine supplexing him in between Ingrid’s emerald vinyl sofa that’s peeling at the edges and an end table with stacks of mailed promotions for local pizzerias and dentist offices.

It’s harder, still, to imagine it, when the overwhelming urge he has right now isn’t even to yell or lash out, but to flee to his room and throw himself under his weighted blanket until Sylvain leaves. This is hardly the feeling he anticipated.

Sylvain lets out a small huff of laughter and Felix snaps back to where he’s at. Sylvain’s looking back at him again, pointing to a small framed photo on the wall. “What are you two, dating?”

Felix feels his face heat again. “Ha ha,” he starts mirthlessly, “No. She insists on hanging that.”

‘That’ being one of the few photos in existence of Ingrid and Felix together. They’re perched on a piano bench, both small enough they can actually fit with ease. Ingrid must be mid-sentence, her mouth wide open and an excited flush across her round face. Felix is leaning behind her, clearly staring at the camera, and there’s a shy attempt at a smile on his face. They’re much younger in the photo; he can’t actually remember when it was taken.

A few weeks after he moved in, Ingrid had spent the weekend visiting her family and returned with this photograph. He’d taken it down a few times, but somehow Ingrid always found wherever he hid it by the next morning.

“Well, I think it’s cute,” Sylvain says fondly. “I remember that summer. We were probably at your house every day.”

His gut tightens. “Can you stop?”

Surprise actually flickers across Sylvain’s face. “Can I stop what? Remembering things?”

“No, just—” Felix stops short, breathing sharply through his nose. How did he ever say things around Sylvain before?

His cello catches his eye then, still out in the middle of the room. _This is safe_ , he thinks to himself.

“I was practicing before your loud ass showed up. And I’m not done, so.”

Sylvain just stares in a way that means he sees right through Felix, even though he wasn’t even sure what he was trying to hide. An instant later Sylvain's grin is back and he holds his hands up.

“Well, far be it from me to get in the way of the virtuoso and his music. I like living in a non-dismembered body.”

Felix rolls his eyes, feeling some sort of relief, and goes to his cello. “Great. Leave, then.”

Sylvain, instead, takes a running jump and sprawls out across the sofa so that he’s facing Felix. “Nah.”

He feels his mouth twitch at the familiarity of the motion, but still manages a glare. “I don’t practice—”

“— with other people around, yeah, yeah, you’ve still got a stick in your ass.” Sylvain literally waves him off. “Or a bow, whatever.” He stretches and folds his arms behind his head. “Don’t worry, you won’t even notice I’m here.”

“Hardly,” he spits out before he can think. Something mischievous glints in Sylvain’s expression.

“You didn’t when I was at the door. You sound great, for the record. But you’re definitely way too in your head.”

Each of his muscles tenses and freezes at once. Sylvain was listening?

“Yes, I was listening,” he continues, his shit-eating grin growing wider. “For awhile, too. That last run was sounding pretty good.”

Felix just stares at him. Sylvain had heard him play, had heard him _keep messing up_ , and then, when he was finally going to get the transition right…

“I fucking hate you.”

Sylvain closes his eyes and smiles wider. “Yeah. I figured you did.”

His phone vibrates in his pocket and Felix nearly drops it, he’s so frantic for something to keep him from strangling Sylvain. When he answers, Ingrid’s voice immediately cuts through the room.

“I just parked. He stopped texting, so you let him in, right? He didn’t stop because you killed him?”

Sylvain laughs from the couch. Felix glares. “He’s got precious few minutes left,” he monotones. “Don’t bother rushing.”

“I’m bleeding out on your shitty sofa as we speak!” Sylvain calls, raising his voice dramatically.

“It’s not shitty,” she says, matter of fact. “Felix, I take it back. Let him die.”

Sylvain clutches at his chest even though Ingrid can’t see him. “You wound me!”

“No. That was Felix. Keep up.”

Felix nearly grins despite himself at Ingrid’s teasing voice, but quickly works his face back to impassivity when he remembers Sylvain’s watching him. “Are you here yet?”

The door creaks as it swings open behind them. Ingrid’s there, cell phone still pressed to her ear, and a huge smile breaks out on her face as Sylvain immediately jumps to his feet. “Yeah,” she says, hanging up the call. Sylvain’s already rushed to her side and starts spinning her in the air as he hugs her. Ingrid laughs in delight and hugs him back, and Felix just watches, acutely aware of the distance between them, the pit in his stomach, and the inexplicable feeling like he’s moments away from vomiting.

Sylvain places Ingrid down and she seems to notice Felix again. She oddly steps back and smooths out her sweater. She smiles timidly at him, almost like she’s embarrassed, and it really makes no sense to Felix. It was never exactly a secret to him that Ingrid and Sylvain were closer than he ever was with either of them.

“Okay! So, um. Well. You two have already been talking.” Ingrid’s eyes are flicking back and forth between the two of them nervously. Felix realizes she’s about to start talking about— about Sylvain _living_ with them, which he’s still barely begun to process. He places his bow down, grabs Ingrid’s hand and starts pulling her down the hall. Ingrid, to her part, sighs loudly, but follows him. “We’ll, uh, be right back Sylvain! Help yourself to the kitchen!”

Felix doesn’t bother to look and see Sylvain’s response and instead tugs Ingrid into his room and closes the door behind him. “What the hell?” He asks calmly.

“Calm down first.”

“I _am_ calm.”

Ingrid flicks him on the shoulder, and that actually gets him irritated. He slaps her hand back, but she does it again, and Felix barely manages to hold himself back from starting a slap fight with her. “Stop it! God, you’re just like Glenn.”

Ingrid smiles smugly. “No, you’re just easy to annoy. Look,” her voice switches to stern when he starts to retort, “I’m not going to have this conversation with you if you’re going to be freaking out or not listening, okay?”

He takes in her entire posture: arms crossed across her chest, feet planted on the ground, shoulders back. Between her hair being still styled back and her business casual clothes, Ingrid actually strikes a serious form. It isn’t surprising that she’s already moved up the ladder at her work; she always radiated a sense of competency.

“Fine,” he mutters, walking past her to sit on the edge of his bed. She moves like she’s going to sit beside him, but stops and just stands facing him instead.

“I know it must be really hard for you to see him,” Ingrid starts slowly, fidgeting with her hands. Felix watches her warily. They’ve never talked about Sylvain, not since he left, anyway. Not for lack of Ingrid trying, admittedly, but after the fifth or sixth time of Ingrid pulling up a photo to show everyone and Felix pointedly leaving the room, she stopped bringing him up back in college. He doesn’t know what she could be referring to, unless…

“Why do you think that?” He asked, hesitant.

“Well, you know.” Felix, in fact, doesn’t. He tells her so, and Ingrid sighs, as if saying this actually pains her. “His book.”

The anxiety surrounding this conversation for him is quickly being replaced by confusion. He knows about Sylvain’s book. About a year after he left the United States, Sylvain published a book, something Felix only knows because it soared to the top of the New York Times’ Best-Seller list, and for several horrible weeks he had to see Sylvain’s stupid name and portrait plastered across shelves and displays around town. It was annoying, sure, to hear he was doing great and was wildly talented at yet another thing, but it wasn’t exactly devastating news.

Ingrid takes a half-step closer to him, and Felix realizes he hasn’t responded, which she seems to have taken as a confirmation. “I can’t imagine it feels good to see him, knowing so many people have read it.”

He’s still confused, and a little taken aback that Ingrid thinks he’s so much of a dick that he’s upset by someone’s book doing well, even if it is Sylvain's, but if the alternative is explaining why it actually is soul crushing to see him...

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “It’s… hard.”

“For the record, I didn’t just say yes to him without thinking about you.” Ingrid pauses again, which he would appreciate, really, if he knew why Ingrid was so concerned about giving him space. Instead, he just waits, and she continues.

“I know it’s probably weird to you, that we’re still friends, but I don’t— just because he and I still talk, I don’t want you to think I’ve just forgotten that, and that I didn’t think about you.” Ingrid finally sits down next to him as she speaks, and the mattress shifts and makes their shoulders bump into each other. Felix slides back to watch her as she continues. “But he just called me today, Felix, out of the blue, saying he’s in Buffalo and he has no money left, and he needs someplace to stay.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Felix snaps, looking away. “Sylvain? Out of money?”

“I know! Trust me, I know, that’s what I said, but,” Ingrid trails off, clearly conflicted. “Well, I’m only telling you this because I know you’ll kick him out otherwise—”

“I probably still will,” Felix cuts in sourly.

“— _but_ , apparently his parents cut him off when he dropped out of college.” That stops Felix in his tracks.

He had heard from his father, against his will yet again, that Sylvain had dropped out just before his senior year. The rest of them had already started their third year at NYU, so “no one was around to talk him out of it,” as he recalls Rodrigue’s disappointed voice saying over the phone.

Frankly, Felix already had his hands full of Sylvain-related life crises at the time, so he had made a point to not give a shit about it.

But his parents finally drawing the line? Well, he’d say he didn’t blame them, but no matter how much he can relate to wanting a clean cut, Felix doesn’t think he’ll ever stop hating the Gautiers for what they did to their sons.

“He’s been living off his savings,” Ingrid says again, and he realizes his hands are clenched into tight fights in his lap. “He asked if he could stay here until his next book is finished. Apparently his publisher cut a terrible contract so he hardly gets any royalties.” Her voice is full of frustration, and Felix wonders how Ingrid can honest-to-God still feel defensive for someone who left the country without so much as giving her a heads up. He thinks about that someone living here now, with them, and Ingrid believing whatever claims to friendship Sylvain makes only for him to inevitably fuck off again.

It’s easier to feel right in his vindictiveness when he thinks about Ingrid.

“So what if he blew his money?” Felix says sourly. “He can write another book and be fine somewhere else!”

“He said he was almost done with it,” Ingrid tries, and she has some sort of understanding look on her face, which doesn’t make any sense. The anxiety starts creeping back in and he worries that every day will be like this, with Ingrid pitying him and Felix being in near panic. His room suddenly feels hotter. “Okay?”

Felix chooses to pick at the corner of the throw blanket rather than respond. Ingrid sighs again.

“I know. But he has nowhere to go. It’s here, or his parents’.”

Memories rush to the front of his mind. Memories of Sylvain showing up at his house, late at night, tears and a smile on his face, of lying in the grass behind his house, talking quietly and staring at the moon, of “accidentally” falling asleep on holiday eves so he could celebrate in the morning with them, of driving with them to university to crash in their dorms since his own semester wouldn’t start for weeks later.

Felix grips the blanket tight. He hates Sylvain. But, he’s quickly realizing, he’d rather he was the miserable one over Sylvain, even now.

Fuck.

They sit there for a long time. Ingrid says nothing, and Felix hates that when he meets her eyes, he knows they’re thinking the same things.

“Fine.”

Ingrid hugs him, and he lets her. She squeezes tighter and whispers, “You’ve got to hug me back before I let go.”

Groaning softly, Felix loosely wraps his arms around her, even though it’s awkward sitting side by side and he was the only one from their hometown who missed the hugging craze. Ingrid makes a quiet, content noise, and his shoulders relax, just slightly. He’ll survive this, without murdering Sylvain. If nothing else, he’ll do it for her.

But because he can’t help but be a bit of a shit, Felix squirms out of her arms a second later and gives her half-hearted glare. “He can’t be in the room when I practice. You have to tell him that so he’ll actually listen.”

Ingrid pulls back and laughs a little bit. “Yeah. Okay, fine.”

When they walk back into the living room, Sylvain nearly drops Felix’s cello from surprise and stares at them with a guilty look.

Felix takes it back. He doesn’t know specifics, but he’s certain that he and Sylvain will be the death of each other.

* * *

Felix isn’t sure if Ingrid talked to Sylvain about his practicing or not, considering he hasn’t been in the apartment long enough to find out. When Ingrid’s around he can get away with hiding away in his room, even with her not at all subtle attempts at getting him to come and play a game or have tea with them, but when she leaves for work, Felix is right out the door after her.

He is able to pick up a few extra hours at his job working as an usher at the city’s performance hall for matinees, but most of the time he ends up at a café on the University at Buffalo’s campus with Annette or Ashe.

“You’re sulking,” Annette chimes when she sits down next to him on the third day. She’s bundled in scarves and a parka over a skirt and leggings, so it comes out really much closer to “mmr smring,” but Felix has survived enough New York winters to translate effortlessly. She carefully untangles herself from the layers of thick yarn before speaking again. “Sorry. You’re sulking. Why?”

“I am not sulking,” Felix mutters, picking at a callus on his finger. Ashe snorts next to them from where he is perched over his laptop, mid-final paper. Felix hates his friends. “God, fine. Maybe I am. I’m just antsy. Sylvain’s always around, I haven’t practiced in two days.”

“Wow, this sounds clinical,” Ashe teases. “I don’t think I ever saw him miss a day during undergrad.” Annette presses a hand against Felix’s forehead and comically frowns when he waves it away.

“His forehead doesn’t feel hot. If it isn’t a feverish delusion, it may be something wrong with the brain on a larger scale.”

Ashe hums thoughtfully. “I know someone in the neuroscience program here.”

“Very funny, the both of you.” They simultaneously beam at him and he angrily slides further down into his seat. He hates café lounge chairs and their useless back support.

“Why haven’t you just played?” Annette asks, pulling out a concerningly thick stack of papers from her bag. “What’s he going to do, talk to you over the music?”

Felix watches Ashe wince at the same time as him. “He… may,” Ashe admits. “He was pretty much always pestering Felix.”

Annette groans. “It’s not fair that you’ve met him!” She smacks Felix’s shoulder. “I want to meet your mysterious childhood hang-up.”

“He’s _not_ a hang-up,” He says adamantly. Annette just gives him a _look_ , so he throws his hands into the air. “I’m serious! He’s just a nuisance, and he’s ruining my life.”

“You can’t avoid him forever,” Ashe says, offering no empathy or compassion for Felix’s hardships. He frowns, and Ashe shakes his head. “No, you really can’t. Go back and figure it out, or stop complaining about your cello.”

Annette grabs Felix’s drink and takes a sip, which he only allows because she’s Annette, and because he knew she’d immediately spit it out in disgust.

“Gross, Flick, is this black coffee?”

He forces his grin back into a look of vague disappointment. “You’re the one who just drank it without asking,” he points out.

“Yeah, because I thought you’d be normal for once, and also, I’m still freezing!” As if to punctuate her point, Annette shivers, full-bodied and exaggerated. “Do you ever get used to the cold?”

“Nope,” Ashe chirps at the same time as Felix’s “Yeah.” Ashe leans over Felix, leveling Annette with a grave look. “Don’t trust him, he was raised in this. No normal human is meant to acclimate.”

Felix shoves Ashe back. “Don’t scare her.”

Annette sighs. “Too late. Maybe I can still transfer before my dissertation gets too serious.”

It isn’t long until Annette and Ashe actually have to get to work, and they all but shoo Felix out of the public café, even though he hardly laments about his cello in the following conversations. He had been paying attention to the things they were saying, even.

Twice on the walk back he nearly turns around, but Felix eventually arrives back at the apartment. He’s stuck staring at the door for an embarrassingly long time. He takes a few steadying breaths and flings open the door.

Sylvain looks up from the sofa where he’s curled up with a book and a mug of tea. He looks surprised to see him, and all Felix can focus on are the thin, silver circle frames resting on his nose.

“You’re wearing glasses.”

Sylvain grins. “I am. And you’re home early. What color is the sky right now? I’ve got a sneaking suspicion it may be blue.”

Felix frowns and toes out of his shoes. “Shut up. Since when have you needed those?”

Sylvain earmarks his page and closes the book, seeming to consider the question. “I think I picked them up a year back, maybe? After I started really writing. Hurt the eyes,” He jokes. Felix doesn’t know what to do with Sylvain joking, so moves to the kitchen to start water for tea. Sylvain twists to watch him as he goes, peering up over the back of the sofa to watch Felix through the open entrance.

“So,” Sylvain drawls out, filling the silence. Felix wishes he’d just go back to whatever stupid story he was reading. “How was your day?”

With the water now heating, Felix has nothing to keep his hands busy, so he reluctantly turns to look back at Sylvain. He’s removed his glasses now and is sitting with his chin perched on the sofa cushion. Felix was only just getting used to Ingrid’s apartment; now it feels unknown again, like he isn’t sure how to take up space here.

“It was fine,” he says finally. Sylvain tilts his head, as if to prompt Felix to go on, but he can’t think of anything else to say, even if he wanted this small talk to continue.

Sylvain sighs, over-exaggerated and with sweeping arm motions. “My day was great, thank you so much for asking.”

Felix can’t control the instinctive eye roll. There’s very few things more annoying than Sylvain’s stupid theatrics, even if the rest of the world finds them to be enamoring. Maybe that’s part of why he’s always hated them. “Come on,” Sylvain goads, “That’s how this talking thing works, bud. I say something, you say something, back and forth, ad infinitum.”

He glares. “Don’t call me bud. I’m not interested in talking.”

Sylvain actually snorts. “Clearly.” His eyes are crinkled with amusement, and it makes Felix’s skin itch underneath his layers.

The sooner he gets control of this, the sooner he can get Sylvain to leave him alone and he can practice. “Fine. When will you be done with your book? Ingrid said soon.”

“What, are you trying to get rid of me that fast?” Sylvain smiles brightly at him, and Felix flushes again. _You’re pathetic, Felix_.

“Yes,” he manages. “As soon as possible, ideally.”

Sylvain’s smile flickers. He leans back into the sofa, angling his body back away from Felix. “Well, it’s coming along, so don’t worry too much.”

“Do you have much left?” Felix presses. Sylvain shrugs and takes a slow sip of his drink.

“That’s not really how I write.”

Felix can’t help it; he laughs, loud and harsh. “Right. So you have no idea.”

Sylvain gets up from the sofa then and lazily walks towards Felix, and Felix can feel his gaze on him. “No, that’s not it. I just don’t write through outlines like that.”

“How do you write, then?” He mutters, grabbing a mug and tea from a cabinet. Sylvain leans up against the counter next to him, somehow still oozing a casual charm, even in a loose pair of sweats and a hoodie. A traitorous part of his brain muses on how Sylvain’s always been like that, no matter the attire.

“I don’t have a special method or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.” Sylvain reaches behind him and grabs the now-heated water kettle. Felix moves to take it, but Sylvain just pours into Felix’s mug as he talks. “It’s pretty simple. I see things, and later on I write them down.” There’s a short pause as he places the kettle back on the counter. “If I remember.”

Felix considers this for a moment and fiddles with the steeping tea bag. “Sounds inconsistent,” he says finally. Sylvain’s eyebrows fly up.

“Okay, rude. You realize being an artist doesn’t mean working until you’re miserable each day, right?”

“I don’t do that,” Felix says quickly. Sylvain laughs, and Felix tightens his grip on his mug.

“Sure you don’t.”

“How would you even know?” Felix snaps. Sylvain shoots him a look as if to say _please_ , and it sparks something angry in him. “You’re infuriating.”

“But I’m right! You know I am,” Sylvain teases.

Felix turns away from him; he feels like he could suffocate under Sylvain’s frame like that. “You’re not,” he ignores Sylvain’s dissenting hum, “And I’m done with this. I am going to go practice now. If you bother me, Ingrid and I swore years ago that she’ll help me hide any bodies.”

He pushes off the counter and walks away. “Have fun!” Sylvain sing-songs, overly sweet.

Felix flips him off without looking back. “Write your damn book!”

He locks his door behind him, and, miraculously, Sylvain doesn’t bother him once during the next two hours he practices in his room.

Although, maybe Sylvain doesn’t because he can hear how terribly it goes without him needing to interrupt. Felix can’t get himself to focus on the music; he’s hyper-aware of Sylvain’s presence, just down the hallway, and he can’t get his cello to do anything he wants.

Felix stays in the rest of the night, too stubborn to let Sylvain see how frustrated he is with the useless practice session. At one point he can hear him and Ingrid laughing to something on the television and his stomach seizes up again.

“You’re not right,” he mutters to himself. “You’re just the problem in the first place.”

* * *

The next morning, Sylvain’s still asleep on the sofa when Felix emerges for breakfast. Despite a warning alarm blaring in his head, Felix pads over to behind the sofa to look at him better. Sylvain’s bundled up in the blankets Ingrid pulled out for him, his face completely hidden except for his eyes and a tuft of bright red hair. He’s breathing slowly, deep in sleep, and the room is still around him.

Felix quietly grabs fruit and returns to his room before he does anything else he’ll regret.

An hour later, he’s leaning back in his desk chair, eyes closed and focusing on the second movement of Brahms’s Cello Sonata No. 1 when KPop, of all things, begins to blare from the living room. He breathes in slowly and turns his phone’s volume up. He finishes the movement and is starting the third when the music cuts through his earbuds again.

Felix opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. _Just ignore it_ , he thinks. _You’re nearly through the whole piece._ He turns up the volume once more and manages a few more measures before, in some sort of cruel miracle, he thinks the music knowingly gets louder in response. Huffing, Felix unlocks his phone and shoots off a text to Annette complaining even though she’s probably in a lecture. He stands and starts to pace around his room, trying to focus on his music again.

There’s a loud thud from outside, and Felix rips his earbuds out and storms out.

“Could you _please_ shut—”

Instead of finishing his sentence, Felix makes some sort of pained, strangled noise at the sight of Sylvain, shirtless and mid-crunch on the floor. He can feel every inch of his face heat up and he does his best to stare at the floor in a nonchalant way.

“What?” Sylvain shouts, grabbing the bluetooth speaker near him and turning the volume down so that Felix could actually hear himself think again. Although, right now his thoughts are uncomfortably laser-focused on the shirtless Sylvain in the room, so he’d rather they be drowned out after all.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you, what’d you say?”

“Can you please change the music?” Felix grits out. “I am trying to focus.”

Sylvain reaches behind him to grab his phone and Felix absolutely does not watch the stretch of his stomach muscles as he does. He’s tempted to just turn around entirely, but he knows Sylvain will know why, and that’s even mortifying.

“Do you not like Red Velvet anymore?” Sylvain asks idly, thumbing through his library.

“Do I not— what?” Felix asks, still flustered. Sylvain starts to repeat himself and the question finally clicks in his brain. “No, Red Velvet’s fine. I’m just trying to study a piece.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Sylvain mutters. He pauses the music as he finds whatever he’s looking for.

Felix turns around then, satisfied enough and ready to not leave his room again for the entire day, and then a loud, synthetic pop track bursts into the room.

“Sylvain!” Felix hisses, turning on his heel.

“What?” He asks innocently. “Carly Rae Jepsen is worthy of study.”

Felix is vibrating with frustration. “No! I’m not studying _Dedicated!_ Can you not be a pain in my ass, for once?”

“Not even Side B?” Felix clenches his jaw and rolls his eyes forcefully enough to actually make himself dizzy. Sylvain watches him for a moment and then shrugs as he gets up from the floor. “Look, Fe, it’s this or country. Those years at Vanderbilt changed me.”

Something white-hot courses through his veins, and before he knows it, Felix has stomped up to Sylvain and is glaring him down, despite the height difference. “Do _not_. Call me Fe.”

The corners of Sylvain’s eyes tilt downward, and he actually looks… remorseful? “Alright, I won’t. Sorry.”

His apology deflates Felix's anger— he hadn’t anticipated Sylvain backing down like that. Now their proximity feels wrong, too close; Felix can see sweat starting to gather on Sylvain’s neck from the workout. He steps back quickly, like he’d been shocked. “Whatever,” he mutters.

Neither speak for a moment, letting Carly take over with her ridiculous (yet admittedly catchy) lyrics about her emotions. He hadn’t heard that nickname since Sylvain said it last, years ago. There’s a familiar queasiness in his stomach again, and Felix wants to move on so it’ll pass. “Do you really have to work out in the living room?”

Sylvain lets out a short laugh, and Felix wonders for what must have been the thousandth time in his life how Sylvain can laugh so easily and often. “Uh, yeah?” He gestures at his chest with his hands, as if Felix had been unable to stop covertly staring at him this entire time. The bastard. “You think I maintained this with some sort of international gym membership when I was traveling?”

“I don’t think about your body maintenance at all, actually,” Felix responds on instinct, because he’s an idiot and his brain is probably shutting down from lack of oxygen. Sylvain raises a single eyebrow, and Felix is going to combust. “Shut up.”

He can hear Sylvain’s laughter above the music even after he closes his bedroom door and puts his earbuds in again.

* * *

It’s a few days later when Felix realizes something has gone horribly wrong. He realizes this from the absurd amount of exclamation marks Ingrid includes in a text asking if he needs anything from the store on her way home from work. Ingrid is many things, but a peppy texter she is not.

He’s running through potential scenarios as he glances through the fridge and cabinets. _She was fired? No, no one would ever be that stupid. Right, they’re out of garlic salt. It couldn’t be car issues if she’s stopping for groceries still. Had they missed rent? No, it’s the middle of the month. This freezer is too damn full, when did they get half of this stuff?_

As he types the short list out Sylvain appears next to him, setting water to boil. Felix has spent the last few days getting remarkably good at pretending he’s no longer keenly aware of the exact distance between the two of them at all times. He internally laments how easy it used to be just a month ago.

“You ready?” Sylvain asks conversationally. Felix turns to him, an eyebrow raised in silent confusion. Sylvain waves his phone in response and Felix catches sight of his text message with— _ugh_ — “Ingy-poo.”

He makes some sort of disgruntled noise, because it’s all he can manage over the simmering resentment for Sylvain’s nicknames and freely given affection. Sylvain chuckles softly. “Yeah, same,” he says, even though Felix is positive he doesn’t get it. “She asked if I still liked mint chocolate chip ice cream, but with at least four typos.”

Only because Sylvain’s back is turned as he messes with tea and sugar does Felix let his face soften. His mind jumps to a time late in his second year, one of the last times Ingrid would have last seen Sylvain.

It isn’t a particularly great memory.

Ingrid sat on Felix and Ashe’s futon, shivers occasionally wracking through her like aftershocks from hours of crying. He and Dimitri were on either side of her, equally exhausted yet never more awake. Ingrid hadn’t let go of Dimitri’s hand in hours, and if it was anyone else, Felix was sure she would have broken their hand by that point.

None of them knew what to do when someone cried, really, and especially not when that person was Ingrid. Felix wracked his brain for anything comforting to say, but all he had was silence.

He looked over her face again, watching her open and close her mouth several times. She was never quick to have words for her strongest feelings. Felix frowned slightly, commiserating with her struggle. In truth, that was probably the biggest commonality between them.

So he waited. They all did.

“It’s just,” Ingrid said eventually, voice strained and crackling, “I’m just— I’m _happy_ for her, I am. You know that?” He and Dimitri hummed validation, and Ashe said something softly from where he was perched on a pillow on the floor in front of them. “I’m not,” Ingrid started, struggling over a hiccup of tears starting again. “I’m not a bad person?”

“ _No_ ,” Dimitri and Ashe said immediately. An untamed, pained noise escaped from Ingrid and the tears poured out faster. Dimitri moved to put an arm around her and she leaned into him again, adding more snot to his worn sleep shirt.

Earlier that day, Mercedes and Ferdinand had called, ecstatic to share that Ferdinand had finally proposed. It wasn’t a surprise— the pair had started dating shortly after the four of them started their first year, and apparently had been dancing around each other for years before. But that didn’t mean anything to Ingrid’s heart. It still fell hard and fast for the kind and beautiful third-year, and only seemed to let her know after Mercedes was suddenly unavailable.

He was overwhelmed by a sudden rush of affection for his friend. She had spent nearly two years saying nothing, but Felix knew it hurt each time to see them. It wasn’t until after they hung up, after a half hour of gushing and hearing Ferdinand preen over every last detail of the proposal, that Ingrid finally showed it. They haven’t moved much after.

Felix didn’t know what to do with this sudden and soft pride, or if it would do her any good to hear about it anyway. He gently pulled his fingers out from Ingrid’s still-long hair, abandoning the idle braiding he had started, and instead rested his hands on Ingrid’s legs that were folded up in his lap. He squeezed tightly.

There was a knock on their door and Felix felt Dimitri and Ingrid both jolt. Ashe sprung to his feet and peeked through the door viewer. Inexplicably, he grinned, and Felix was about to snap about him opening the door right now, but then in strolled Sylvain, hair pushed back with a headband and two plastic bags in hand.

Ingrid immediately shot up and met him in a wordless, tight hug. One of the plastic bags smacked against Felix’s chest, but he couldn’t even be bothered to complain; not when Ingrid was smiling again.

“Hey kiddo,” Sylvain said when they finally pulled back. He cupped Ingrid’s face affectionately and Felix noticed the bloodshot red streaked throughout his eyes. Ingrid leaned into one of his hands.

“What are you doing here?” She asked quietly. She was still smiling, even as fresh tears still rolled their way down her puffed cheeks. Sylvain dug into one of the bags and pulled out two pints of ice cream: a fruity sorbet and mint-chocolate chip. Ingrid actually gasped as she immediately snatched the sorbet and a spoon from the bag and ripped open the seal.

Sylvain laughed warmly and brushed Ingrid’s bangs out of her eyes. “Something told me none of these chumps would have the decency to get my girl ice cream.” He gave them each a knowing, exaggerated look, and when he landed on Felix, Felix smiled loosely in response. Sylvain nudged him with an elbow. “It seems I was right.”

Ingrid cried around a spoonful of sorbet, and if it was anyone else, Felix would have thought it was hysterical. Maybe it still sort of was. “You did not drive all the way here for a _delivery_ ,” she chided. Sylvain’s smile only got wider.

“Of course not, babe. I drove here for you.”

She had cried more, but Felix could feel the way the anxiety left the room; the way Dimitri relaxed his arm around Ingrid’s back, the way Ashe watched them fondly. He remembers, so strongly, the feeling that everything would be alright now that Sylvain was there.

Now, Felix clenches his fists to stop their shaking, and firmly reminds himself that Sylvain only left again.

“What do you think she’s freaking out about?” Sylvain asks, turning back to Felix. Felix shrugs noncommittally.

“Something annoying.”

Sylvain narrows his eyes, an unspoken _Felix_ in the motion, but continues. “My bet’s on something Dad-related.”

Felix shrugs again. The memory of Ingrid heartbroken still lingers, and he’s not interested in hypotheticals anymore.

Fortunately, he doesn’t need to be, because Ingrid’s throwing open the door in the next instant, carrying an inordinate amount of reusable bags for a single trip from the car. “Hello boys!” She chirps, panic not at all hidden.

“Hey, love!” Sylvain calls as Felix monotones: “What did you do.”

Ingrid freezes, her ankle suspended in air where she was precariously untying her boots despite her full hands.

Instead of answering, Ingrid focuses on her other boot. Felix walks up and takes two of the bags when he sees a carton of eggs start to slide downward.

“Well?” He prompts.

She glances at him, then turns back as she places her boots on the mud rack. “What are your guys’ plans for Thanksgiving?” She asks slowly.

Felix frowns. “Microwave something? Potatoes, probably?” Ingrid clicks her tongue and walks past him, setting her bags down on the counter. He can practically see waves of nerves, wholly uncharacteristic of the usually stalwart girl.

“Not food, Felix. Plans. Like, where are you going to celebrate?”

Sylvain hands Ingrid a fresh mug of chamomile tea which she accepts wordlessly, and the frustration surges through him again. How does Sylvain always anticipate what she needs like that?

Instead of huffing, Felix follows behind her and places the bags next to hers. “Well, I’d rather die than go home,” he mutters. “Hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Me too,” Sylvain offers, waving his hand. “Not really many thanks to give at the old place.” Ingrid nods quietly, clutching her mug fiercely. Sylvain glances at Felix, and Felix quickly looks away. “Is it alright that I stay here?” He asks, quieter.

Ingrid nods once. “Yes, of course,” she says quickly.

Sylvain seems to relax marginally, and Felix busies himself with unpacking the seemingly random things Ingrid picked up. There’s a short pause where the only sound is the crinkling of packaging.

Sylvain and Felix wait.

“It’s just that my parents are coming here,” Ingrid says finally, voice tight.

Felix snorts and feels their gazes on him. “So? We already know how annoying your old man is.” Ingrid doesn’t seem mollified, which only confuses Felix, because it’s true. They’ve had plenty of meals with the Galateas over the years, and they suck, but it’s par for the course when it comes to Thanksgiving. He says as much, and Ingrid only frowns further.

“I think what Felix means to say,” Sylvain says leadingly, “Is that we don’t mind eating with your family. They love us.” He hesitates and cocks his head to the side. “Well, they love Felix, anyway.” 

“That’s the issue,” Ingrid says quietly. Felix narrows his eyes.

“The issue is that they love me?” He definitely isn’t sour.

Ingrid puts the mug down and waves her hands in the air. “No, no. The issue is they hate Sylvain, so they were upset when I said he’s staying here.”

Sylvain nods, as if what Ingrid just said wasn’t insulting. “That’s fair,” he says. “I could hide in the bedroom?” Ingrid shakes her head and worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Are your brothers coming?”

“No, they’re making the trip to my Granny’s.”

“Oh yeah? How is she?”

The fact that Ingrid doesn’t even have it in her to glare when Sylvain waggles his eyebrows suggestively is admittedly worrisome.

“Just get it out, then,” Felix snaps, tired of the go-around.

Ingrid sucks in a sharp breath. “My parents were going to make me kick Sylvain out because they thought he’d _pull_ _something_ on me—” she and Sylvain have matching expressions of disgust— “and so I panicked and said he wouldn’t because you two were…” she trails off. 

Felix raises an eyebrow at her, and Ingrid gives him a timid smile. “I said you were dating.”

Felix drops a container of hummus on the ground. They all stare at it as it rolls in a slow, pitiful semi-circle before falling on its side.

“You said what?” Felix asks with, frankly, an incredible level of tranquility. He chances a look at Sylvain, who’s still staring at the container on the floor. His face is completely drained of color, as if dating Felix was the worst thing he could imagine. Nausea presses up into Felix’s throat.

Of course he’s mortified. _What else would he feel?_ Felix thinks, bitter and sharp.

Ingrid picks up the hummus. “In my defense,” she says carefully, “I didn’t think it’d ever matter. They weren’t going to visit, but now that you’re back,” Ingrid pauses to wave the hummus in the direction of Sylvain, who is now clenching his jaw so hard it looks like it may snap, “Apparently they’re dying to come see the apartment instead of the usual trip.” She huffs and leans against the counter. “I don’t think my father believed me,” she mutters, clearly frustrated.

“No shit he doesn’t!” Felix snaps harshly, making Ingrid and Sylvain both jump. He sees the hurt flash across Ingrid’s face, but he can’t be bothered to care when _she’s_ the one who got them into this mess. He crosses his arms only to put them back at his sides. “You’re already a terrible liar, and then you say that Sylvain and I are— that we’re _dating?_ Like anyone would believe that.” Felix shakes his head once and stares hard at the floor.

An uncomfortably long pause follows, and Felix has to tamp down on the urge to look at Sylvain the entire time. He couldn’t deal with the resigned agreement and discomfort on his face. Seeing it for himself might just tip him over.

Finally, Ingrid speaks: “Well… they might. And now they have to, if you both want to keep staying here.” Her voice takes on a defensive tilt, as if she’s already responding to their protests.

“Guess Sylvain’s leaving then,” Felix responds dryly. Ingrid smacks his arm.

“No, maybe he’s right.” Sylvain sounds off in a way that Felix can’t interpret without looking at his expression.

“What?” Ingrid asks, incredulous. “Don’t be ridiculous. Where would you go?”

“I’d find a place,” he responds, not missing a beat. “It’ll be fine.”

“It wouldn’t be.” Ingrid actually stomps on the ground, but the thick fabric of her socks absorbs the sound. “They’d be furious if you were gone. He’s only allowing it because I told him how you’ve changed.”

Felix snorts, despite himself, and moves before Ingrid can hit his arm again.

“I won’t kick you out, Sylvain. And I won’t let my dad either.” Her pure earnestness washes over Felix, his skin crawling in its wake. He doesn’t get how he was somehow bunched with her and Dimitri from birth, the most loyal dogs he’d ever met. She’d really let people do whatever they need just so they wouldn’t leave. He clenches his fists at his side, remembering her tears years ago. Why couldn’t he save her from this?

Sylvain sighs, slow and controlled, and it brings Felix back to the present. “Oh, Ing,” he whispers, sighing again. Felix can see him move to hug Ingrid out of the corner of his eye and he finally looks up from the floor.

It's a mistake. Sylvain’s staring at him over Ingrid’s shoulder, face inscrutable. Felix swallows thickly and makes himself hold his gaze.

He hasn’t looked at Sylvain’s eyes since he’d gotten here, not really, or at least not like this. It’s funny; for how long he’s seen them, Felix probably couldn’t have recalled the color if someone had asked. Such an oddly light brown shade, nearly like his cello. It was everywhere in his life. Maybe that’s why it had escaped him.

It’s nearly frustrating, to think he could have forgotten something so important, and yet that thought makes him more frustrated still. Wasn’t that the goal, to forget all about Sylvain Gautier?

He watches as Sylvain’s eyes suddenly flit around Felix’s face before settling on his mouth. There’s a stupid rush in Felix’s lungs, but then Sylvain turns away and stands back up from his hug, and whatever moment they just shared was gone as quickly as it had came.

The need to know Sylvain’s thoughts courses through him, then, abrupt and desperate. Is he still dreading the hypothetical of them, together? Is he worried for Ingrid? Is he— remembering, like Felix is trying not to?

It occurs to him, all at once, that Sylvain’s going to leave. A door’s been opened, and to stay would be to put someone else first, to acknowledge that the things he’s done don’t waltz out of their lives even when he does.

Ingrid’s hands stay on his arms, and he thinks Ingrid knows he’s leaving, too. Felix knows he could handle it (he’s been expecting, if not waiting for this stupid moment) but Ingrid— for all the misery she felt from Sylvain’s absence, she never seemed to care that he did it knowingly, like Felix did. No one else seemed to care. Somehow he was the only one who saw Sylvain for who he was: a coward, and a lousy friend.

His old grudges press open at their scabs, reminding him of how much it had hurt to realize this the first time. It’d be easier, for him, if Sylvain left. Maybe people would get it this time.

Felix stares at Ingrid for a fraction of a moment longer. He knows how much happier she is, even from just a few days of Sylvain being here.

He feels the scabs ache. He can’t change who Sylvain is, but maybe he could keep her safe from that realization for just a little while longer.

Felix nearly does something stupid, like tell her it’ll work out. Instead, he chooses to be much stupider: “Fine. We’ll keep your damn lie.”

Ingrid whips around, her eyebrows nearly in her hair line. “Really?” She asked cautiously. Felix rolls his eyes, focusing on this new annoyance as distraction.

“Yes, really. If he can manage not to mess the whole thing up.” Felix nods in Sylvain’s direction, doing his best to goad him, but keeps his eyes trained on Ingrid. If he looked at Sylvain, he was sure he’d see right through Felix’s bait.

There’s the slightest hesitation and then Sylvain laughs once, disarmed and clearly offended. Pride smirks up at the corner of Felix’s mouth; hook, line.

“As if I’m the weak link in this couple, _honey_ ,” Sylvain drawls out. Felix’s gut sinks.

Ingrid and Sylvain’s laughter flies through him. “Oh, Felix, no, you can’t make that face,” Ingrid manages, placing a hand on his shoulder even after he brushes it away.

“I won’t,” he says, petulant. Ingrid barely contains a mocking grin, and Felix wonders why he ever does anything for her. “I _won’t_. I’m not going to be the one that messes this up.”

“Fine. You’re on,” Sylvain says, matching his tone. Felix frowns, and Sylvain reflects it back, overexaggerated and stupid.

“God, you’re annoying,” Felix mutters, and Sylvain just laughs again and rummages in the bags still on the counter.

Ingrid turns so that only Felix can see her and levels him with a serious look. He’s sure it means _Don’t fuck this up, Fraldarius, or I’ll hurt you_ , and he rolls his eyes. “I’m not the one you have to worry about with this,” he says, voice flat.

“I’m not so sure,” she responds, suddenly quiet. Behind her, Sylvain hums with excitement and pulls out a comically large container of mint chocolate chip ice cream. He grabs a spoon and carves a large chunk of it out, then holds it over Ingrid and right in front of Felix’s face.

“Want some, babe?” He asks through a wide, false smile. Felix can feel any control he thought he had over this situation slip away. He turns away from the dumb spoon and makes to leave the kitchen. What the fuck were they doing?

He must have said that out loud, because Sylvain’s chuckling after him. It’s forced, and it pisses him off. “Just remember this was your idea.”

Like there’s any chance he’ll let himself forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you again to the mods of the FE3H AU Bang for organizing the event! Updates will be posted on the weekends starting next weekend. It's a doozy of a fic and I hold it close to my heart, so I hope you'll enjoy!
> 
> Follow [me](https://twitter.com/sunsetdawnOnTwi) and the fic's artist [Alicja](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei) on Twitter!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring more of [loreleimelodei's](https://twitter.com/i/events/1346872291485999105) incredible art!
> 
> Another quick note: there's some discussion of an accident and the deaths of minor characters in this chapter. See the end notes for more details.

Ingrid’s parents are slated to arrive two days after she tells them. Felix nearly calls off the plans at least once during each of the forty eight grueling hours.

It was stupid in the first place, stupid to let some fear of Ingrid being hurt by Sylvain convince him to allow his actual nightmare come to life. He was barely managing to talk with Sylvain before; now, every time they’re in the same room, Felix can feel the looming presence of them _pretending to date_ pressing down on his shoulders. He can hardly practice, his hands shaking nonstop, and the dread of falling even further behind makes him miserable when he tries to do anything else.

Felix goes for a run twice each day, just to put this excess of energy somewhere, but no amount of sprinting and wheezing and sharp, blustery air in his lungs can seem to consume this restless energy. There are too many terrible _what-if’s_ hanging over him, making his heart race and his hands seize up before he even considers them. He knows there are a hundred ways for this to go wrong, but he can’t seem to make it past the first step of any hypothetical before the sheer embarrassment of it all shuts his brain down.

Sylvain is going to be sitting beside him, pretending that he likes him, that he’s happy dating him, and Felix is going to drown in the misery and shame of it all. Would he even be able to look at Sylvain without seeing that hidden layer of regret, of _pity,_ from him, too?

He’s doing push-ups in the park like a madman when it occurs to him that this, at least, is hell for Sylvain, too. If Felix had to confront a relationship with Sylvain, then so would that bastard. Maybe there’s a way to make this less painful for them both.

It’s a decent idea, but Felix can’t seem to say anything coherent when he tries to speak to Sylvain after getting back to the apartment. He manages a "I thought of something," but then grammar and syntax elude him. Sylvain raises an eyebrow at Felix after he stands there for ten silent, agonizing seconds. _We need boundaries for this,_ he thinks of saying, remembering Ashe’s wording.

“Don’t bother me while I practice,” comes out of his mouth instead. Sylvain throws his hands up and annoyance flashes over his face.

“Oh my god! You’re the one who came up to me! You’re such an ass.” He pushes past Felix and walks towards the bathroom. Felix literally bites his tongue in his mouth out of frustration. Is he incapable of doing anything right?

Sylvain is closing the door behind him when he mutters, so quiet and spiteful that Felix barely registers: “You can barely even practice anyway.”

It carves deep into Felix’s gut, serrated and twisting. _He’s right._ Fear, spite, and anxiety wrestle in his skull. He settles on none, and turns around for another run.

When he returns, he doesn’t even try to bring it up again. Futile attempts at playing the cello are made, but in reality, Felix wastes the entire night staring at his wall instead, dreading the events of the day to come.

* * *

In the morning, a loud crash from the kitchen wakes him and Sylvain both up, and they all seem to realize at once that Ingrid has no idea what she’s doing.

“You’ve no idea what you’re doing,” Felix says. Ingrid gestures to where a large turkey’s sitting, completely plain, in a large aluminum baking pan.

“I’ve thawed the bird!” Ingrid points out. In a point for her, Felix admittedly didn’t realize you even had to do that.

Sylvain walks over and pokes the raw turkey once. “Are you going to season it?”

They start going back and forth over whether there’s a need to do anything besides adequately heating it and Felix realizes this is his last chance; Ingrid’s parents will be here soon enough.

“We’ll go pick shit up instead,” he says, turning and walking away. “Ingrid, don’t burn it down while we’re gone. And I think you use butter on the outside.”

He can feel the pair of them staring after him. “Am I part of that we?” Sylvain asks. Felix looks back at him, exasperated, and gestures towards the door with his head.

“Yeah, dumbass, I can’t carry that much food on my own.”

Sylvain hesitates for a moment, like he’s expecting Felix to change his mind, which is terrible, because Felix _wants_ to change his mind. He makes himself grab his parka and shrug it on instead of wait for an answer. Fortunately, Sylvain appears at his side moments later, coat in hand.

“What are you going to pick up?” Ingrid asks, clearly nervous. He glances back at her and sees her wringing an oven mitt between her hands. “It has to be— you can’t just get anything. It has to be normal, you know. Adult.”

Her parents would be here in a few hours, and with their arrival, every aspect of the apartment would be under scrutiny. He doesn’t envy her position; he doesn’t know what he’d do if he suddenly had to host Glenn or his father, either, and they weren’t interested in controlling each minutiae of his life like Ingrid’s father was. “We’ll do Wegmans. They’ve got Thanksgiving things, I think.” 

His answer seems to be enough to calm her, a bit. “Okay. I’ll, uh, Google this, or something,” she says, looking at the turkey like it could start flapping away at any moment.

Felix glances out the window and sees a few snowflakes drifting downwards. They’ve been lucky with only one heavier snowfall so far this year. Hopefully this one won’t stick either.

“Come on then,” he mumbles, stepping past Sylvain and out the door. Sylvain wordlessly follows behind. When they’re out of the building, Felix looks back at him, cautiously watching the way Sylvain just tilts his head in response, his face carefully neutral.

“It’s close enough to walk,” he says, heart already racing under his layers. Sylvain nods and follows behind when Felix heads off.

They walk in silence for a couple minutes. Felix glares down at his boots. Snowflakes land on the waterproofed leather, quickly melting and gliding off. It’s silent, save for their shoes on the cement and Sylvain’s even, slow breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain says at the same moment Felix says, “I want to talk about us.”

Sylvain nearly crashes into Felix because of how abruptly he stops walking.

“What?” Felix asks, unable to make sense of the absolutely dumbfounded look on Sylvain’s face.

“What? No, you what,” Sylvain says immediately, shaking his head. Felix can hear his pulse in his ears. 

_“You_ what,” he repeats, firm.

Sylvain actually looks scared, of all things. “No, nope. No. Your what sounds much more important. You first,” he says, nearly all in the same breath. They stare at each other, neither moving an inch. Felix wants to finally talk so he’ll stop feeling residual nausea from the anxiety of it all, but he also has no idea what Sylvain could be apologizing over. _So many things,_ part of him supplies. Some of them he may not be ready to think about yet.

“Fine,” he says finally, still reluctant. Sylvain nods once, jerkily, and he wonders if Sylvain was somehow expecting this. Felix gestures forward with his hand and starts walking again; it’ll be easier to look ahead than at Sylvain’s face, and Ingrid’s parents can’t be far out anyway. “It’s about this… dating thing.”

He pauses for a moment, mostly to collect his thoughts, but also in case Sylvain would somehow guess what’s on his mind and say the hard parts for him. Unfortunately, he doesn’t say anything. “It’s going to suck,” Felix manages. “So, can we just— can we agree to not make it more awkward than it has to be?”

“Oh.” The shock in his voice is enough to make Felix glance back instinctually, but Sylvain just looks confused. “That’s… yeah, sure.”

Felix frowns and tugs the hood of his parka over his ears. He can feel his face heating up, and he doesn’t need Sylvain to see and tease him. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

They take a few more steps in silence. Felix steps on a piece of paper on the ground, but there’s no satisfying crunch.

“Honestly, that’s just not what I thought you wanted to talk about,” Sylvain says slowly. “You know. Us.”

Wind pushes Felix’s hood backward and he desperately clutches at it, tugging it further down. His face is surely on fire now— he hadn’t even considered talking about anything _else_ , but now he hears his own words playing back in his head, taunting him for sounding so dumb.

“Nope,” he rushes out, the word getting caught in his throat halfway through. “Nothing else.” _Please,_ he adds in his head. “So we’ve got a deal, then?”

“I guess,” Sylvain says softly. Felix nods and shoves his hands into his pockets. He should have brought gloves; his fingers are too cold to keep holding his hood down.

“Cool,” he mutters eventually. He can see the store coming up on their right. They're nearly there; it could have gone worse, Felix supposes, although not by much.

He's turning and trying to get the automatic door sensors to register him when Sylvain taps his shoulder, sending him nearly shooting into the air.

“Hey, sorry, wait,” Sylvain says, turning Felix around. Felix flushes again, mortified that Sylvain can just pivot him around like that. Fortunately, Sylvain’s looking anywhere but Felix’s face, his brow furrowed with thought. “What did you mean? What would make it awkward?”

Felix nearly sputters. Is Sylvain going to make him spell it out? “You know,” he manages. Sylvain frowns, a _no, not really_ clear in the action. Felix bounces on his heels. “Couple things. Things couples do.”

Sylvain looks down at him, his frown deepening. “You know the point is that we’re a couple.”

“I know that,” Felix retorts. Sylvain looks more confused, and Felix makes a vague hand motion. It doesn’t seem to help, and Felix’s going to throw Sylvain into the traffic, he’s really going to make him say it. “Physical things, alright? So don’t, you know, be an ass about it, because it won’t be funny.”

A hundred little emotions flick across Sylvain’s face before Felix can even register one of them. His face settles on something neutral, but Felix can see his carefully guarded veneer layered above it. It’s an age old ache, recognizing that look.

“Of course,” Sylvain says, much softer. Felix realizes how close he is and carefully steps backward, and Sylvain’s hand drops from his shoulder. Felix nods again. “I wouldn’t, for the record,” Sylvain continues. “Mess with you like that, I mean. I’m not that much of a dick,” his voice takes on a playful slant at the end, but it doesn’t match the rest of him.

Felix replays what he’s said but can’t seem to find anything that sounds like he’s being made fun of. Maybe Sylvain really does feel that bad for him about it all.

He can’t think of any response that isn’t entirely too embarrassing, so he mutters a thank you and turns back to enter the store. The wave of hot air presses against his face in a rush. He shivers on instinct and unzips his parka, quickly letting out his trapped body heat before he becomes a moving sauna. He even lets his hood fall off, hoping he can play off any lasting redness from the cold.

Beside him, Sylvain whistles, drawn out and low. Felix looks to follow his gaze and realizes the store’s absolutely packed: each checkout lane has lines of shopping carts, most filled to the brim with the same food they were after.

Felix drags a hand down his face. “Shit.”

“No kidding,” Sylvain says, still distracted as a woman walks by with _four_ rotisserie chickens balanced on the top of a full cart. “You know, if you two had said you didn’t have a plan, I could have prepped us something.”

“I said I didn’t have a food plan,” Felix says immediately, defensive. “Besides, you don’t know how to cook either.”

Sylvain grabs two baskets by the door and passes one to Felix. “Not true. I happen to have mastered cooking in recent years.” Felix narrows his eyes on instinct; he has specific memories of Sylvain drowning his entire tray in ketchup in high school. Sylvain narrows his eyes back. “I’m serious.”

“Sure,” Felix mutters. Sylvain rolls his eyes.

“Whatever. I’ll show you guys sometime. Not today, though. I just want to get out of here as quickly as possible.” Sylvain glances at the crowd again, clearly dreading the experience.

It’s a terrible time, by and large— they have to wait fifteen minutes for half the hot food bar to be replenished, and Sylvain has to physically stop Felix from body checking some teenager who snatches the last bake-at-home sheet of dinner rolls from his hands— but they manage to leave in just over an hour, arms full of still-warm side dishes and bags of wine bottles. Sylvain had grabbed a chicken at the last minute as well, even after Felix pointed out that Ingrid’s cooking the turkey back at the apartment. “That’s precisely why we need this,” he had said gravely. Felix thinks he managed to hide his smile in the collar of his parka.

They’re halfway back to the apartment when it occurs to Felix: “You never said what you’re sorry for.”

Sylvain slips on a small patch of ice but somehow manages to catch himself. “Oh, yeah,” he says casually. “Guess not, huh.”

He’s still worried to hear it, but a much larger part of Felix is dying to know what could possibly make Sylvain Gautier apologize to him. “Well?”

“It was, uh, about yesterday,” he says, and their eyes briefly meet before Felix looks back and focuses on the containers he’s balancing. “What I said about you and practicing. It was uncalled for. So I’m sorry I said that.”

His chest tightens a bit at the memory. “It’s fine. It’s not like you were wrong.” It comes out darker than he meant it, but even that isn’t exactly wrong either.

“I’m pretty sure I was,” Sylvain responds, confused.

Felix sighs, frustrated. “Not really. My practicing has sucked ass recently, especially if even you can pick up on it.”

“Why do you say that?” He sounds genuinely curious, and Felix realizes he’s saying too much. Sylvain wasn’t someone he wanted to talk about this with. He didn’t want to talk about anything with him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says sharp, ending the conversation. He catches Sylvain glancing at him again, but to his credit, he changes the topic to Ingrid and her cooking and muses about what state the apartment could be in. Felix lets him talk, grateful for the opportunity to be silent. He’s let this stupid outing make him too relaxed; he’s lucky he didn’t say anything worse.

Sylvain fills the rest of their walk with chatter, and when they arrive, Ingrid’s there to help get everything up the stairs.

“Are you wearing makeup?” Felix asks, eyeing her carefully. She groans and forcefully places the dish of mashed potatoes down on the counter.

“Please don’t, I seriously don’t have it in me.” Her hair’s falling out of some fancy plait she’s put it in. Felix places the rest of his bags down so he can carefully tuck the hair back into the ribbon clip she must have pulled out of some old box. She sighs again, drumming her fingers against the granite countertop. “I think I deep cleaned everything twice while you were gone. The internet had a lot of very different strategies for the turkey, so I took it out on the toilet instead.”

“May have been a waste of effort if you’re going to feed your cooking to anyone,” Felix says through a small smirk. Ingrid glares at him out of the corner of her eye, but he sees the way her mouth tilts up.

“You’re the worst.”

Felix grins, small and warm, but it slides off his face when he realizes Sylvain’s just standing to the side, watching the two of them. He abruptly drops his hand from her hair, feeling his ears heat quickly, like he’s embarrassed for some reason he can’t place. “We should prep these things.”

The three of them manage to get everything heated and transferred to large serving plates with time to spare before the Galateas arrive. Sylvain vacuums the entire apartment again for Ingrid, during which she manages to cajole Felix into changing. “They already like me,” Felix protests when he comes back out in a button down and slacks.

“But they need to like you and Sylvain _together,”_ she stresses, fiddling with his collar. He halfheartedly smacks her hands away, but they hover close by. Felix can feel her suddenly shift to serious. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Little late for that,” he mutters, glancing over her shoulder. Sylvain’s doing some sort of weird dance as he rounds the sofa with the vacuum; there’s no way he can hear them.

“Well I couldn’t really ask you when you were either gone or locked in your room the entire time,” she responds, crossing her arms. “I miss talking with you, you know. You should hang out here more.”

He shifts between his feet uncomfortably. “Yeah. Maybe. Mostly I just want this over with.” She snorts a short laugh.

“You and me both. But you’ll be okay?”

Felix exhales through his nose. Ingrid’s watching him carefully; lying would be pointless. “No, I’m going to hate this, I’m sure. But I won’t blow it or whatever, so you don’t need to worry.”

Ingrid purses her lips, and Felix worries he somehow lied even though he hadn’t meant to. “Okay. I really appreciate you doing this. All of this.” She points her thumb behind her in Sylvain’s general direction. “I mean it. I owe you.”

Vindication surges through him, and for a second, all latent worries are replaced by a warm pride. “Damn straight,” he says. Ingrid laughs, and it’s the most relaxed he’s seen her all day.

The vacuum shuts off and Sylvain’s voice comes from around the corner: “Hey, Ing? I think the turkey’s done.”

She nearly trips sprinting to the kitchen.

The turkey, by some stroke of fate, is actually cooked. Sylvain cuts a small piece off for each of them to try and Ingrid’s face floods with emotion after she chews hesitantly. “Oh my god. It’s not terrible.”

“It’s definitely edible,” Sylvain confirms, gently pushing the turkey away. “Maybe we still start with the chicken?”

“I like it,” Felix chimes in.

“You like anything that’s meat,” Sylvain responds, not unkindly.

“We’re eating the turkey. Just with lots of gravy, too,” Ingrid says, adamant, and moves the bird to the center of the table.

Her phone starts to ring and she answers it within moments. “Hello,” she says, voice nearly an octave higher. “Oh, great! Yes, you’re here. The parking’s in the back, I’ll come help.” She rushes to the door and shoves her feet into shoes, hastily tying them. “No, you don’t have to turn around. You can get there— no, the front connects— it’s okay, I’ll be right there, I’m headed down now—”

The door slams closed behind her. Felix fiddles with his shirt, fixing where it was unevenly tucked into his pants.

“You look nice,” Sylvain says quietly, glancing at Felix before returning to messing with the plating of the meal. Felix’s hands twitch, so he shoves them into his pockets.

“Don’t say shit like that, it doesn’t work on me.” Sylvain laughs, sounding leagues more relaxed than Felix.

“I’m not trying to do anything. It’s a compliment.”

Felix frowns towards the floor. He’s heard countless compliments tumble out of Sylvain’s mouth, but rarely were they ever aimed at him, and even less frequently were they ever genuine. Sylvain steps away from the table towards him, but doesn’t get much closer than that.

“I need to compliment you if we’re dating,” Sylvain reminds him. Felix huffs and re-adjusts the way the cuffs of his sleeves sit on his wrists. Sylvain was already dressed nice because he _always_ is, even when he’s not trying, so Felix can’t even deflect to that.

“We’re not dating right this moment,” he says finally. He turns to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of wine from the counter. “Come on, it’ll be weird if we’re just standing here.”

Sylvain wordlessly follows suit and busies himself by fiddling with the sink tap until they hear Ingrid’s voice, loud and too fast to be casual from the hallway. As she opens the door, Sylvain leans down near Felix’s face and whispers low: “Showtime.”

Felix jumps away from Sylvain, his shirt collar suddenly tight around his throat, just as the Galateas step inside. “Felix! And Sylvain,” Ingrid’s father greets. Felix feels his neck flush at the man’s tone: still full of contempt for Sylvain, but also clearly surprised.

“Hope we didn’t interrupt anything,” Ingrid’s mother says slyly, waving a hand at the two of them. Felix’s soul is going to exit his body.

Sylvain laughs loudly, rehearsed and perfect, and steps out from the kitchen. “Mr. and Mrs. Galatea! It’s been too long.”

He shakes hands with Ingrid’s father and delicately kisses the cheek of her mom, and quickly dives into a story of how something he saw during his time in Portugal reminded him of them both. They both look charmed, if not stunned, and Felix imagines he looks much the same.

“Good God,” Ingrid whispers beside him, taking the wine from Felix’s hands. “I forgot how unnerving that shift is.”

“Yeah,” Felix mumbles, eyes still trained on Sylvain’s back. “Pour me a glass, will you?”

“Duh,” she says, and sets to work. Sylvain looks back at them, a wide smile still on his lips, and he waves Felix over.

“I’m sure you’ve seen more of him than I have, hm? In person, anyway. I’m jealous. Come on, Felix, say hello then.”

Felix slowly walks over and greets the Galateas just as Sylvain did, just with significantly less pomp and circumstance. “Arthur. Lucille.” They look the same as they had the last time Felix saw them, save for the final streaks of Ingrid’s father’s hair having faded to a bright, uniform white. They’re prim and put together, the essence of professionalism and country clubs. It is astonishing that Ingrid didn’t inherit their penchant for lying.

“It’s been too long, dear,” Mrs. Galatea coos, patting his cheek. Felix politely leans out of her reach, and she laughs fondly.

“Thank you for keeping our Ingrid out of trouble,” Mr. Galatea says, with no amount of subtlety as he glances between the three of them.

“Father.” Ingrid’s not quite pouting, but she’s definitely uncomfortable from her spot by the table. “Please. I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

Her father chuckles and walks further into the apartment, shooting Felix and Sylvain a knowing look. “Now I’m in trouble,” he teases. Sylvain hums in response, which he’s sure sounds pleasant enough to Ingrid’s parents, but Felix recognizes it as carefully restrained rage. He snorts and follows them to the table.

“Ingrid, honey, this looks lovely. You must have been cooking all day.” Mrs. Galatea’s carefully surveying the table as she sits to Ingrid’s left. Her father takes the seat at the head of the table, leaving Sylvain and Felix to the other side. Felix gently kicks Ingrid under the table, and she smiles threateningly in response.

“Thank you, mother,” Ingrid says. “Would you like to lead grace?”

Ingrid’s mother tilts her head down and reaches out for her daughter and husband’s hands. The action catches Felix off-guard— he doesn’t think he’s said grace in years, let alone with Ingrid— but Ingrid’s giving him a pleasantly controlled look that spurs him into quickly taking her hand. To his left, Sylvain takes Mr. Galatea’s hand, and they both glance at where their free hands rest on their laps.

Felix all but glares at Sylvain, challenging him to say something, and grabs his hand in a swift motion. Sylvain, to his credit, says nothing, but the corner of his mouth tilts up, clearly amused. He runs a thumb over the back of Felix’s hand, and Felix attempts to break every bone in his fingers at once.

Sylvain only flinches a little, and it’s small enough to pass off when Mr. Galatea looks at him warily.

Mrs. Galatea leads them through grace, Ingrid and Sylvain poised and respectful in contrast to Felix’s clunky response, and they finally drop hands. Sylvain casually rubs his right hand as he stands and gestures to the turkey. “Allow me.”

He carves it under Mr. Galatea’s supervision, and soon enough everyone’s got plates full of Wegmans finest, which garners a few blissful moments of silence before the questions about Sylvain’s worldwide travels continue. Felix tunes most of it out; he doesn’t really give a shit about what Sylvain got up to, and he isn’t in the mood to have it confirmed that he was partying and living it up in island getaways and metropolises while Felix was busy amounting to nothing.

Instead, Felix keeps looking between the Galateas, watching their huge reactions and laughs for a sign of anything out of the usual, as if there was a signal for “Felix and Sylvain are lying about dating” that he could miss. They both seem to be acting normal, which, of course, means Ingrid’s acting anything but: her actions are stilted, perfectly performed and withdrawn for her. She’s also eating at the pace of a normal human, something he’s wished for countless times, but is still frustrated by to no end. They’re not even talking to her and she’s still like this, though maybe that’s more cause-and-effect.

 _You’re doing fine,_ he wants to tell her. _Their opinions don’t even matter._ But even if her parents weren’t here, he wouldn’t bring it up. They’ve gone down that road before; Felix will never understand Ingrid’s devotion to people who’ve done nothing to earn it, but he’s tried enough times to respect it. If begrudgingly.

Their eyes meet and Felix raises an eyebrow instinctively. Ingrid grins, half-hearted and stressed, and barely raises a shoulder, mimicking a shrug. Felix tilts his head, trying to prompt something else, but Ingrid just glances at Sylvain and laughs politely at one of his anecdotes.

The sound seems to be enough to remind the Galateas that they’ve got a daughter. “You know, we were worried for a bit there that Ingrid might just drop everything to go and be with you,” Mrs. Galatea says to Sylvain, giving her daughter a teasing smile. Ingrid’s eyes widen.

“You _were?”_ She asks, incredulous. Mr. Galatea laughs, for some reason.

“We never knew with this one!” He gestures to Sylvain, who smiles even though Felix is relatively positive that was an insult. “Though I suppose we needn’t have worried in the first place.”

They both narrow in on Felix, smiles still trained like swords, and look significantly back and forth between the two of them. Felix barely wrangles his scowl into a frown. “We weren’t dating when he left,” he says.

“But I have never considered whisking your daughter away, and also never will!” Sylvain adds quickly, carefully holding his hands up. Mrs. Galatea glances his way, nearly disdainfully, and actually turns away from him to focus on Felix. Her stare feels like a crosshair.

“So when did you two get together, then?” She asks, and Felix recognizes the predatory tone in her voice. “We hadn’t heard talk of it back upstate.”

And there it is: the sinking of the teeth and claws. They have their doubts after all, it seemed. For all that Felix had spent worrying about this dinner, he never thought of having to prove their relationship beyond the physical, and now, with the Galateas’ sights on him, he realizes it’s much too late.

When he glances at Sylvain, he finds his fake partner already speaking. “We were waiting for after the holidays to tell everyone,” Sylvain explains, smiling softly back at Felix. He can’t help the flush that creeps up his neck at his words, so he nods in hopes that everyone will move along. “There’s already so much happening, you know, we didn’t want to add to the end of the year crazy.”

Sylvain places his hand on the table, close to Felix’s but not quite touching. Felix curls his hand away at first, and makes a conscious effort to smooth it back out next to Sylvain’s. Sylvain was handling all the talking; he could manage this. For Ingrid.

“Spending the holidays together, you know, that’s quite serious,” Ingrid’s mother continues. She smiles at them both. “It’s surprising from you Sylvain! But a great surprise, of course, we’re so happy to hear. So you’re quite serious about Felix, then?”

Felix pointedly does not look at Sylvain while he says, “Absolutely, ma’am. I’d be stupid if I wasn’t.”

Felix could laugh. He doesn’t, though.

"Aren’t you sweet,” Lucille goes on, cooing. “News like this is such a treat!" Her husband nods, pouring more gravy onto the turkey on his plate.

"It's the first bit of good news the Fraldarius family has had in quite some time. We were delighted when Ingrid told us." Mr. Galatea's tone is polite, but Felix knows the man is trying to pry something out of him, anything to make him feel superior. Felix stills, saying nothing, and matches his eye contact without wavering. He decides to just nod.

"So what have you been up to Felix?" Mrs. Galatea asks pleasantly. Felix glances at her, knowing full well that she's no better than her husband.

"The cello." They laugh, because they always do when Felix refuses to play along. Ingrid's told him they think he's kidding when he does, which he'll take if it means he doesn't have to acquiesce to their bullshit.

"You know we were so surprised to hear you left home a few months back," she continues on her agenda. "Is it true that you haven't decided on pursuing a master's still? Is it because you're worried you'll have to go back to help more?"

Felix clutches the fork in his hand tightly. Across from him, Ingrid seems frozen as well. "Mother," she warns, voice quiet.

"Your mother only asked a question, Ingrid," her father scolds. Ingrid exhales harshly, but tightens her mouth into a line and turns back to her food. Sylvain pulls his hands down into his lap, his elbow knocking against his with the motion.

"I just know you're so talented, Felix, dear, I'd hate to see that go to waste." Mrs. Galatea’s voice is sickly sweet. Felix pushes the chicken around on his plate, appetite gone. She glances at Sylvain. "I'm sure you feel the same, Sylvain?"

Sylvain's face is carefully neutral, and when they lock eyes, Felix can see the hesitancy in his eyes. _Fuck, he has no idea what they're talking about._

He can't let them realize his fake-boyfriend somehow doesn't know about the so-called tragedy that's befallen the Fraldarius family; there is no explanation for him never bringing it up, not when all of upstate New York seems to know. Felix sits up straight and steels himself.

"No, I haven’t decided. I'm not sure what you know—" Felix is positive they know everything, so he glances at Sylvain, who seems to understand— "but I had a few auditions lined up for grad programs my senior spring. But the accident happened, and so I finished my last semester going between NYU and home."

Sylvain nods carefully. "Dimitri tells me all the time how much Felix did for him and the Fraldariuses," he says, clearly trying to play along. Felix looks at him warily; there is a chance he actually had heard about the accident from Dimitri, but there's no way Dimitri would have ever described Felix as helpful during the mess.

The mess, of course, being the fallout of the Blaiddyd Inc. office burning down with Dimitri, his family, and Glenn all inside of it. Glenn had been working there for two years already and Dimitri was home for the weekend to sit in on an important deal and learn from his parents. Suddenly, the building was ablaze. Glenn and Dimitri barely made it out. Dimitri's parents didn't.

“I had to cancel my auditions,” Felix continues, carefully pushing away the mental image of his brother and childhood friend in hospital beds. “And I haven’t applied to the programs again, no. I missed the deadline for starting in a spring term. To your questions, Glenn and Dimitri have made full recoveries,” he lies, because he knows his family has, too, “So that isn’t an issue.”

It is very quiet. The Galeteas’ questions of _but will you apply? Or are you falling apart?_ don’t need to be said, because Felix won’t answer them anyway. He doesn’t like his answers.

Sylvain breaks the silence, effortless and casual. “It’s a treat, being able to hear him play in person again. He’s only gotten better. They’re all going to be fighting for him when they hear his tapes.”

He looks at Felix, they all do, but Sylvain’s giving him a crooked grin that Felix can’t quite understand. Felix doesn’t think he said anything grin-worthy; if anything, outlining his failures was exclusively miserable and humiliating, especially saying it to Sylvain and needing his help. But he’s grateful Sylvain deflected for him, and grateful he’d compliment his playing just to get at the Galateas, so he grins back at him. Just barely, and only for a moment.

“Oh, you two are cute,” Ingrid’s mother says, which gets a resting frown back on Felix’s face in a matter of milliseconds. She laughs at the switch, and her husband joins in. Ingrid looks relieved if still pale from the conversation, and Felix can only wonder what he looks like.

“That’s the face he always makes when you call him cute,” Sylvain says unhelpfully. He smiles innocently at Felix, so Felix glares down at this food. The Galateas chuckle again, and Felix feels his ears heat from embarrassment. He bites down on any snap or comeback, because the smarmy shit Sylvain’s pulling is at least working; Mr. Galatea seems at ease, and Mrs. Galatea looks a step away from making Sylvain and Felix crowd together for a photo. Sylvain manages to switch the conversation by asking for updates on the other neighbors from their hometown, bait which they both happily snap at.

The rest of the dinner fortunately manages to continue without the Galateas happily asking for details about the worst year of Felix’s life, but unfortunately Felix thinks he can count the amount of times Ingrid’s parents acknowledge her outside of critiques on two fingers. And one of those times was heavily prompted by Sylvain mentioning a story Ingrid told him about some fire she put out at work, so it hardly counts.

Ingrid brings out the desserts (an apple pie they left warming in the oven and ice cream; miraculously no one mentions the too-perfect lattice work) and the three of them make quick but discreet work of the wine. The carbs from the meal are enough to slow conversation down, and Felix can actually see the moment a wall of sleep hits Ingrid’s father. He’d record it if Ingrid wouldn’t throw his phone into the sink.

When Mrs. Galatea notices, she laughs nervously and shakes his hand. “Alright, Arthur, we should head out if we want to make it back at a decent hour.”

He jolts awake and attempts to play it off, but Felix still smirks at the sight. Ingrid stands and smooths out her clothes. “Would you like to see the rest of the apartment and then I’ll walk you out?”

Her parents agree, and Sylvain smiles at them once more. “Don’t worry about the table, we’ve got it.”

Mrs. Galatea tuts at him, but her husband actually claps Sylvain once on the back. “Thank you, Sylvain. It’s good to see you’ve grown up; good work, Felix.” He points at Felix and gives him a cheesy wink, and Felix is certain that he and Sylvain could knock him out in under five seconds if they combined their strengths. But then Ingrid’s leading them down the hall to show them her bedroom and the opportunity is lost.

He and Sylvain wait until their voices are muffled, and then they collapse in sync to the backs of their chairs. “Good god,” Felix mutters, and Sylvain chuckles in a low register.

“I’m too out of practice for family politics. I nearly threw the casserole at them.”

Felix shifts so he can look at Sylvain better over his slumped shoulders. “Really? You didn’t look it at all. I think you had the bullshitting and saccharine charm down perfectly.”

Sylvain grins, eyebrow raised. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me this whole time.”

“Well, I regret it immediately,” Felix snips. He summons the energy to rise above the post-meal haze and stand to actually clear the table like they said. Sylvain laughs again, and Felix is all too aware of how warm and pleasant the sound is. Sylvain’s laugh, his _real_ one, when he’s tired and not performing, has always been addictive. He focuses on ignoring it, and instead maneuvers the plates in his hands so he can juggle as many as possible. Sylvain reaches out, to help or to catch something, and Felix quickly jerks away and turns to the kitchen. “I’ve got it.”

“You do,” Sylvain responds, and Felix can hear the amusement. He starts scrubbing at their plates and hears Sylvain come in and set the leftovers on the counter. They work in silence, Felix washing and Sylvain putting food away, which comes as an endless relief. He’s tired of speaking, and he knows he spoke the least out of everyone at the table. If they had kept pressing him, or if they’d opened another bottle of wine, Felix is certain his restraint wouldn’t have held out much longer.

Sylvain hands him an empty serving plate and Felix accidently brushes his fingers when he takes it from him. It sends the smallest of jolts through him, and with it Felix is mortified again. The night’s nearly over and he’s made it this far; he will not let washing dishes be his downfall.

He manages to finish two more dishes before the Galatea family returns. Mrs. Galatea rushes to him, catching him in a quick hug. “Felix, honey, always such a treat seeing you.” She presses a quick kiss to his cheek and then pats it twice with her hand. Felix frowns, but nods. When he looks to Sylvain he finds him with a strained smile, standing politely as Mr. Galatea says something quietly in his ear. When he’s finished, he leans back and gives Sylvain another clap on the back.

“Say hello to your father for me,” he says, and everyone winces, including his wife. He either misses his mistake, or just blatantly meant to insult (which Felix wouldn’t put past him), because he switches places with his wife to shake Felix’s hand. “You do the same, Felix. It’s good to see you.”

Felix remains speechless, so he nods again. Mrs. Galatea seems to finish doting on Sylvain, and they both step back and turn to their daughter. Ingrid looks as though she may shoot off through their ceiling with the way she’s vibrating with anticipation for their departure. They quickly gather belongings and say a short and polite farewell, and Ingrid hugs them each before seeing them out the door. She closes it behind them and turns around slowly, exhaling loudly.

“You two are champions,” she says, and before she finishes Sylvain is there, picking her up and twirling her around in another tight hug.

“Damn, they suck!” He exclaims, and they both laugh, even if Ingrid’s sounds more exhausted than Sylvain’s relieved. When he puts her down, her hair’s half fallen out of it’s style again, wavy tendrils framing her wide grin. “Can we be brainless and watch shitty Netflix now?”

“Please,” Ingrid groans, and moments later she’s sprawled out across the sofa. “Felix?” She asks. Felix can’t see her face, only her feet poking above the green vinyl. He hums, a lazy _yeah?_ , still not having the energy for words. “You down?”

He considers for a moment, leaning against the countertop even as it presses into his side. Ingrid had asked him to spend time with them, and a movie meant he wouldn’t have to say anything. He glances at Sylvain, who’s watching him with the same tired, open warmth, and back at Ingrid’s fuzzy sock-clad feet. Ingrid had a rough night. He could do this for her.

“No rom-coms,” he says as he walks to sit down in the single armchair. Ingrid and Sylvain throw a fit in tandem.

“You’re no fun,” Ingrid mutters.

“Correct. And?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, so Felix does, too. They spend the next few minutes browsing the app, Felix only speaking to veto their terrible ideas, and by the time something’s playing on the television, Felix actually relaxes into his seat— or at least relaxes more than he had all night.

They make it halfway through the movie before Ingrid’s asleep, her head in Sylvain’s lap. Felix doesn’t notice at first, only when a snore rips his attention away from the eighties monster movie. He and Sylvain both watch her a moment, and it’d be creepy if the peacefulness on her face wasn’t such a welcome sight. Sylvain’s gingerly petting her hair and is looking at her with pure affection, and it’s all at once too much; he looks away, feeling his heart lurch with a sensation too close to _longing_ for him to be comfortable.

“We should get her into her bed,” Felix says, willing his voice to be even.

“Yeah. I’ve got her.”

Felix stands to help, but Sylvain’s already nudging Ingrid awake and guiding her off the couch. She grumbles a complaint, but lets him lead her down the hall without any trouble. Felix breathes out slowly. He isn’t doing a good job of keeping Sylvain at a distance from either of them.

At least the worst of it was over with. Tomorrow he can pick it back up and draw the line around himself and Ingrid once more, he decides.

He sneaks into his room before Sylvain’s finished wrangling Ingrid to her bed. He thinks he can hear footsteps stop outside his door, and for a moment he wonders what would happen if Sylvain opens the door.

But he doesn’t, and the footsteps continue.

Too close, Felix repeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning notes continued: It comes up in conversation that the Blaiddyd business headquarters burns down. Dimitri and Glenn survive, but Dimitri's parents do not.  
>   
> Thank you all so much for your kudos and comments! Each notification makes my day. <3 I hope you enjoyed this chapter too.
> 
> Follow [me](https://twitter.com/sunsetdawnOnTwi) and [Alicja](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei) on Twitter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More art in this chapter from [Alicja](https://twitter.com/i/events/1346872291485999105)! This is one of my favorites pieces (they're all my favorites).
> 
> Note for this chapter: Felix reflects on a sexual experience that was consensual but that he now regrets. There are more details in the end notes.

Felix wakes up for what must be the third time that night, already irritated before he even registers it. He's never exactly been a smooth sleeper, but this is a terrible night even by his standards.

He groans quietly and rolls over, punching his pillow a few times in a bleak attempt to get comfortable. Mercedes had recommended something last time he called her and Ferdinand; to count backwards from eight hundred by fours? Or was it threes?

By the time he reaches seven hundred and sixty-four Felix realizes he hates math, and also has to pee, so he gracelessly rolls out of his bed. The late autumn chill rushed in to replace the warmth from his tower of sheets, making him only more irritated even after he stumbled into his slippers and an impressively plush robe. Glenn had gotten it for him a few years back to make fun of Felix's aversion to cold, and, regrettably, it was still one of the nicest things Felix owned.

Felix squeezes his eyes shut, the vague memory of Glenn bringing back the events of the entire night. He cannot believe he walked the table through his shitty year of shortcomings. He can't fall back asleep soon enough.

Stepping out into the hall, Felix is surprised to see a gentle light spilling out from around the corner. He hadn't checked the time, but it must be stupidly late at this point. He hovers at the bathroom door for a moment longer, torn between curiosity and wanting to actually try and get a few more hours asleep.

If it was somehow possible to glare at yourself, Felix would be at this moment. Instead, he makes a quiet exasperated sound and starts to pad down the hall. When he reaches the corner, he stops dead in his tracks.

Sylvain, like always, is a lot to take in.

He's kneeling on the floor in front of the coffee table, back to Felix, his shoulders stretching the fabric of the undershirt he's wearing as he frantically writes. His hair is something wild, and it isn't hard to figure out why when Sylvain's carelessly pushing it back every few seconds. The living room is in no less disarray; it looks like it was the target of a loose leaf paper explosion, and Sylvain's the epicenter. Sheets are spread across the table, the floor, the other furniture, all with Sylvain's looping handwriting across them, edge to edge. It is, without a doubt, the most frazzled Felix has ever seen him, and he hasn't even seen his face.

It makes him incredibly uncomfortable, but he isn't sure why.

He opens his mouth to say something to let Sylvain know he was there in the least frightening way possible, but stops short when he hears the quiet music playing. He recognizes it immediately: Valse sentimentale, Tchaikovsky. Something in his chest clenches. He loves this piece; he had played it at his senior recital, even. And the fact that he loves it still, even after that train wreck, is a testament to its beauty.

Interestingly enough, it's a cello arrangement, even though it was most often played as a piano solo. He and Byleth had worked together on adapting it for his recital after he first shared his admiration for the piece. They weren’t the first to do so, of course, but it wasn’t exactly a popular choice either.

He listens for a few moments longer but can’t recognize the recording. He never would have guessed Sylvain was this deep into anything classical. Felix is suddenly struck again with the realization: for all that Sylvain is the most familiar entity, he was still such an enormous unknown.

Uncomfortable again, Felix shifts his weight between his feet, and the action makes the floor softly creak. Sylvain jumps and whips around, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He taps quickly at his phone and the music abruptly stops.

"Sorry, sorry," he murmurs, looking back at Felix again. Sylvain's eyes go up and down Felix's body once, twice, and he takes his glasses off and rubs at his eyes with his other hand. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Felix resists the urge to snap about how there's no way he could have heard that from his room, but something about Sylvain's voice, soft but rough, like it wasn't quite warmed up yet, holds him back. Instead, he walks around the back of the sofa and carefully folds his legs under himself on the floor next to Sylvain.

Sylvain slides his glasses back on and watches Felix, a curious look on his face. He resists the urge to squirm under his gaze. "You didn't," Felix says finally. "Couldn't sleep."

The corner of his mouth quirks up as Sylvain chuckles quietly. "I get you there," he says, and waves out to the surrounding papers as if Felix had somehow missed them. "Brain's too busy."

He hums in gentle agreement. "I noticed. Is this—" Felix coughs quietly, clearing the sleep from his throat. "Is this normal?"

It isn’t until after he's said it that he realizes how judgmental that could sound, but if Sylvain hears it, he doesn't say anything. "Yeah, kind of," he says, running his hand through his hair once more.

Instead of going with his instinct, which is to do something stupid like throw Sylvain on the sofa and force him under some blankets, Felix taps Sylvain's phone once, waking up the lock screen. The clock overlaying a photo of seaside sunset reads 4:27.

"It's nearly 4:30," Felix chides, even though Sylvain can read the screen perfectly fine. "This isn't healthy."

Sylvain leans back and stretches his legs out from under him. His knees and ankles crack loudly, and they both wince at the sound. "Yeah, well," Sylvain mumbles, stretching his feet. "That's art."

Felix isn't sure what his face instinctively does in response, but Sylvain chuckles again when he sees it. "Come on, you of all people get it." Sylvain reaches out and touches Felix's shoulder as he talks. Felix manages not to jump, but shakes his hand away nonetheless.

"No, I really don't," he says, voice still quiet in the early hours. "I don't practice through the night. I think you would have noticed."

Sylvain rolls his eyes, but Felix knows somehow that he isn't being mocked. "Not that. I meant, you know," he gestures again, "When it takes you, you have to go with it."

Felix frowns. "No, it doesn't. I've never been 'taken anywhere'." Sylvain doesn't seem surprised, exactly, but it's clearly not what he expected. He mulls it over for a moment, absently twirling his pen in his hand.

"Not even when you're really in it? When you're performing and you've just, you've got that flow?" There's something hopeful, something pressing in his voice. Felix doesn't understand it.

"No. I never really get into flow." Something sad flickers across Sylvain's face, and it compels him to quickly say: "Sorry."

Despite the fact that Felix can count on one hand the amount of times he has apologized to him, Sylvain doesn't react. Instead, he keeps staring at Felix, his brow furrowed. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, then opens it again, but says nothing. "Well, spit it out," Felix prompts.

Sylvain looks conflicted for another moment. "Do you like playing cello?"

Felix is, once again, completely thrown off-guard. "Of course," he says, not missing a heartbeat. "That's a stupid thing to ask."

"Is it?" Sylvain asks. Of all things to bring into question, this has him baffled, and he's sure he looks it. "It's just," Sylvain continues, "You don't exactly talk about it like you do."

He tries to look irritated, but his heart isn't in it. "I'm not sure if you’ve noticed, but I don't exactly sing praises for anything."

Sylvain purses his lips, bemused. "You have your ways, though. Even before, when I'd visit you all at NYU, your attitude was different.”

The blood in his veins turns icy in an instant. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to. They’ve never talked about the _before._ Felix makes it a point to not acknowledge it even happened. He had thought Sylvain was on the same page.

A long moment passes and Sylvain just _looks_ at him, waiting for him to say something. When he eventually gets it in his head that Felix wasn’t budging, he slides closer to him on the ground. “I mean it. I’d be complaining about you leaving to practice, but you’d have this spark when you’d explain what your studio was working on, or what you were doing in your lessons.” His voice is even softer, and he’s somehow even closer. He reaches out and touches Felix’s forearm gently. Felix wants to move, but he can’t seem to get his body to do anything. “What happened, Felix?” He whispers.

All at once, Felix snaps back to his body. He shoves Sylvain’s hand off of him and levels him with a furious glare. “You don’t get to ask that,” He hisses, words coming out before he can even register them. “There is so much of me you missed out on when you left.”

The words hang in the air.

Sylvain’s face looks so resigned, so _understanding,_ and it just makes whatever’s brewing inside Felix heat up. He’s been sitting on this frustration for years, and for Sylvain to just— to just stare at him like he expected it is too much.

Felix turns to his own feet, incapable of taking any more of that look. He doesn’t get it, he can’t comprehend while Sylvain’s just sitting there instead of bickering or _saying_ anything. He wants to leave and bury himself back under his sheets, but a bigger part of him makes him wait, hoping for something.

Eventually, Sylvain clears his throat and Felix nearly jumps. “You’re right.” Felix glances at him, wary, and Sylvain is still staring at him. There’s a new gravity to his look. He’s steady, and present, and it makes Felix want to be pulled into orbit.

“Will you tell me all the things I missed?”

It is terrible, because Sylvain has no right to know. It is terrible, because Felix wants him to anyway. It is terrible, and because it is the middle of the night and he is tired and the lamp’s diffused light makes Sylvain’s eyes warm and shining behind his glasses, Felix indulges anyway.

“I don’t know where I’d start,” Felix confesses, frowning at his feet. How does he explain years to someone who should have been there for them? How does he describe invisible scars, the realizations and events that have carefully cut him out and forced him into the center of a puzzle that wasn’t his? How does Felix explain that while Sylvain was gone he nearly lost everything else, too?

Sylvain fiddles with the papers around them and gathers them into a haphazard pile on the table. He says nothing, but Felix knows he’s holding back questions. It’d be easier to answer them than just summon the thoughts. Discerning the important parts of himself to share was a much steeper task than letting someone else think they’ve got him figured out, even if no one ever got it right. Maybe that’s why Sylvain wasn’t asking.

He has a question of his own, first. Maybe that would help cut a path. “Did Dimitri really talk to you about the accident?” Felix asks. Sylvain shakes his head.

“Not about the accident, not really. I don’t think he really wanted to, considering, you know. He just told me that he was fine, and that you were there.”

Felix scoffs quietly. “I was there, but he certainly wasn’t fine.”

In fact, he couldn’t have been further from fine. Both Dimitri and Glenn were hurt badly in the process of escaping the collapsing headquarters of Blaiddyd family business. They were in the hospital for days as doctors tried to reverse the smoke damage to their lungs and burns across their bodies. Felix rushed there on the earliest flight he could find and two days later they learned the recovery would be long and arduous. Dimitri lost sight in an eye, and Glenn would need extensive physical therapy for his legs, which saw the worst of the flames.

Felix and his father left the hospital in shifts to bring food, clothes, music, whatever they could think of that might help the two young men simply get through their stay. Rodrigue himself was barely holding it together, losing his best friends and nearly a son all at once, which made days and anxieties bleed into one congealed, overwhelming mess. Felix knew immediately that he couldn't leave them and trust his father to not mess it up.

Felix tells Sylvain all this, in fewer words, and with careful, precise control.

“And so you missed your auditions,” Sylvain says when he’s finished. Felix nods.

“My auditions, lectures, graduation. Glenn had PT and Dimitri had appointments.” Felix says it simply, because it _was_ simple. It was excruciating and difficult, and Felix was miserable every day. But it was a simple choice.

“And now you’re here?” There is no judgment in Sylvain’s question. Felix knows this, he reminds himself of this.

“Months passed without me realizing,” Felix says. His voice is lower now, held down by a shame and guilt Felix has long ignored. “I don’t remember what I did, not really. It was like…” Felix swallows around a lump in this throat. “I wasn’t me. I wasn’t there.”

“What made you realize?” Sylvain asks. Felix shrugs, and busies his hands by picking at the sleeves of his robe.

“It just happened. I woke up one day and asked Ingrid if I could move in that week. Glenn and Dimitri were well enough at that point, and yet I was still there. It was like my life was on hold.”

Sylvain nods slowly and starts running a hand through his hair again. It sticks back between his movements, the tugged out waves full of even more volume than usual. Felix has rarely seen him this without pretense, so vulnerable. It’s as if Sylvain has no energy for walls or performances, only for watching Felix with an intensity that he thinks he could surely get drunk off of.

“So that’s why you practice like this. You’re trying to catch up.”

Felix considers it for a moment. “In a sense. I remember having so many ambitions,” he says, thinking of his countless lessons, his perfected audition tapes, the hours spent planning his senior recital. “But at some point, I forgot how to…”

He trails off, and instead he tracks Sylvain’s hand in his hair, and remembers the feeling of running his fingers through then-shorter locks. His mind supplies the sound of Sylvain’s gasp when Felix had tugged gently.

His lips are dry. He licks them, and Sylvain watches the motion.

Felix’s voice is rougher when he speaks again. “I forgot how to want things.”

Sylvain breathes in slowly. There’s something electric in the air, and Felix can feel his skin buzzing with the current. Sylvain’s face seems closer, and Felix isn’t sure who is leaning in, but he swears he can feel Sylvain’s breath ghost across his cheeks when Sylvain says, low and honeyed: “And now? What do you want?”

He stares at Sylvain, and time slows with a memory and the promise of a choice.

Before, Felix had wanted Sylvain. He didn’t have the luxury of understanding what it meant to want someone for very long.

Sylvain had knocked on his apartment door at one in the morning, no bags, no explanation, nothing. He stared at Felix, jaw clenched, and Felix didn’t recognize the look in his eyes, the focus in his gaze that had never landed on him before.

Sylvain ignored his quiet questions of _why are you here_ and _what happened_ and _are you okay_ and walked further into the apartment. Felix followed Sylvain into his own bedroom, closed the door behind them, and asked again.

“I had to get away from things,” Sylvain said finally. He crowded Felix back up against his door and placed his hands on Felix’s arms. Felix didn’t understand his pulse spiking, the dryness in his throat. Sylvain leaned in closer. “I wanted to see you, Felix.”

Felix had never been kissed before. It was another thing he didn’t understand, but he thought he liked. The tug of friction, the feeling of his own breath bouncing back against Sylvain’s face, Sylvain’s hands running up and down his arms; they were unknown, but welcome.

Every inch of him that Sylvain touched was thrumming and alive in ways it never was before. Sylvain’s lips were soft and smooth, but he was forceful, tilting Felix’s head and pulling him towards his bed. When they fell back, Felix’s heartbeat held every memory of Sylvain he had ever known, a frantic jolt through his veins carrying the realization of just how long Felix had wanted Sylvain to feel the same about him.

Elation. That was what the feeling curling Felix’s toes and making his head swim was. Sylvain felt the same way about him.

“I don’t know what to do,” Felix said abruptly. 

Sylvain put Felix’s hands on his chest. “Touch me.”

Felix touched nearly all of him. The angles of his body blended together, no longer distinct, only Sylvain, Sylvain, _Sylvain._ He was hardly aware of what he was doing, what Sylvain was doing to him, only that they were together, that his skin was hot, that he was safe with him. It was overwhelming and incredible.

Sometime in the middle of it all, Sylvain stripped them both down to their underwear and dedicated himself to licking and biting across Felix’s chest. He shook under the attention, each muscle contracting and jumping after Sylvain’s mouth, chasing his presence and aching for its pressure to stay. Abruptly, Sylvain leaned up, and their eyes met. Felix hazily realized he hadn’t seen Sylvain’s face; the blown out look of his pupils would have been memorable.

“I’m gonna,” Sylvain muttered, and gestured at his own crotch. Felix nodded stiffly, still panting, and Sylvain unceremoniously reached into his underwear and pressed back down next to him. He kissed Felix’s neck as he jerked himself off, burying small grunts and sounds into his skin. Felix laid there, desperately trying to catch the spinning world and hold it still, until Sylvain froze and then shook against him.

Felix waited as Sylvain wiped his hand off on the side of Felix’s bed. When he finished, he shifted to place a hand low on Felix’s abdomen and gave him a blank expression. He looked tired.

Another moment passed before Felix realized what he was asking. Without needing to think, he shook his head no. So much had happened all at once— even if it was Sylvain, being touched still seemed too much.

His gut immediately clenched with an acute regret. People never refused sex, not with Sylvain, did they? Why didn’t he want that? He frantically searched for words to take it back, but then Sylvain shrugged and laid back down.

He was asleep within minutes. Felix, on the other hand, was kept awake by every sliver of connection between their bodies and the circles of thoughts rushing wildly through his mind. Things were different. Felix knew this, but couldn’t seem to understand anything beyond that, like looking past his reflection in a lake and seeing only the promise of depth. They were mid-dive, and Felix couldn’t gauge how cold the water would be when they broke the surface.

Sylvain shifted in his sleep, and Felix was reminded of his warmth. They would figure it out tomorrow, Felix assured himself.

Yet, when Felix awoke to Sylvain stepping out of his bedroom fully dressed, it wasn’t a surprise. Sylvain didn’t look nervous or guilty. Just blank.

“Where are you going?” Felix’s throat scratched through the words.

Sylvain shrugged. “I’m leaving the US for a while. I’ve got a flight today.”

“What?”

Sylvain shrugged again, and Felix threw the sheets off of himself and stood with a heavy glare. “You’re just leaving? What about your last year of school? Does anyone know?” Did everyone know, except for Felix?

“Listen, Fe,” Sylvain said, voice cold. “I’m not going to be thinking about things here while I’m gone. You shouldn’t think of me, either.”

Felix’s lips curled into a snarl. “Don’t be so presumptuous. Get the fuck out of here.”

And he did.

When Ingrid and Dimitri came to him the day after with news about Sylvain’s sudden arrival in Morocco asking if Felix knew and if Sylvain was okay, Felix mimicked his shrugs. “Why would Sylvain tell me?”

Why would he tell Felix when he could use him like every girl that came before him? Felix’s body flinched with the memory of each touch for months after, the euphoria replaced with disgust, grime, shame. His skin wasn’t his own anymore. Sylvain had taken it, somehow, made it his to throw away, and Felix was stupid enough to think it met something as it happened.

The thought of intimacy haunted him afterwards. Whatever they shared was wrong, tainted, even foreign to his own memory. Felix had never wanted closeness like that with anyone. Maybe the worst part of it was how Sylvain knew that, knew that he was the only one to be with Felix like that, and sought him out for a quick orgasm before fucking off anyway.

It pushes him away from his own body, even now.

And yet, looking at the man in front of him, the ache for the intimacy Felix thought Sylvain was offering wakes and stretches from the nest it made in his chest so long ago. He feels twenty and scared again, sitting across a possibility, a choice, a future he had moved towards only to have it taken away.

If you willingly stick your hand into the flames, can you say it is the fire’s fault when you get burned?

Sylvain watches him patiently, and Felix wonders if he’s realized the power he has over Felix. He must have.

_What do you want?_

“I don’t know.”

Sylvain sits back. “Okay.”

Felix feels the possibility flicker out, wisps of its final moments dissipating like smoke into the air. _It’s for the best,_ he reminds himself carefully. “Goodnight, Sylvain.”

He stands and leaves the room quickly so that he doesn’t have to see Sylvain’s face when he says “Goodnight, Felix,” after him. When he steps out from the bathroom he hears the cello, quiet and somber, filling the space with Sylvain once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning note continued: Felix feels used for sex after the fact and it affects his view of himself and his body. There is some description on how he felt shame and like he was separated from his body afterwards.  
> \--  
> Thank you as always for reading and leaving comments and kudos! Next week will be a fun Valentine's chapter and a return to that delightful fake dating we all love.
> 
> Follow [me](https://twitter.com/sunsetdawnOnTwi) and [Alicja](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei) on Twitter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day~ Enjoy Sylvix going on speed-dates while not-quite talking about their feelings and more art from [Lorelei](https://twitter.com/i/events/1346872291485999105)!

That next Monday, an email notification interrupts Felix’s music during his run. He slows down to jog in place at a stoplight a minute later, so he pulls his phone out to quickly check and inevitably delete yet another Cyber Monday deal promotion.

It isn’t a dumb ad. Felix stops moving.

It’s from the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. _We are pleased to invite you to the next round of auditions._

Felix nearly sits on the sidewalk, right in the middle of downtown Buffalo, but manages to stumble towards a bench as he frantically pulls up Ferdinand’s contact information. The bench’s icy metal freezes Felix’s ass through his HEATTECH leggings but he hardly even notices it, he’s so laser-focused on the phone’s ringing chimes.

“Hello, Felix!” Ferdinand nearly sings in his ear. “How are—”

“I moved onto in-person,” Felix says in one breath. Ferdinand makes an annoyingly delighted sound.

“That’s wonderful! For the CSO, correct?” Felix hums an affirmative. “That’s absolutely fantastic, congratulations. Imagine that, we could be playing together again!”

Felix nods to himself, willing the news to somehow feel more concrete. He hadn’t heard from any of the other orchestras he’d sent tapes to. He hadn’t hoped for any sort of response; his tapes were amateur, at best, and he had only sent them because of Ferdinand’s insistence he get into the habit again.

For the briefest of moments, it occurs to Felix that maybe Ferdinand had pulled something— surely he must have, there’s no chance in hell they’d be impressed by his tape alone. But Ferdinand had only been with them for half a year, and even then, audition juries never share information anymore. They wouldn’t have even known Felix’s name until after they made decisions from all of the tapes.

They heard his tape and wanted to hear more. Anxiety seeps in slowly.

“When is your audition?” Ferdinand asks.

“Oh, uh…” Felix quickly tabs back to the email. “The end of the year. The 30th, I need to pick a slot.”

“Well, you simply must stay with Mercie and I while you’re here. Come in early, we can finally show you the city!” Felix considers it for a moment. It has been a long moment since he’s seen either of them.

“If you’re sure,” he says. Ferdinand laughs, and Felix wishes he felt like laughing instead of whatever nerves he has.

“Of course! We’ve got plenty of room. Oh, this is so exciting. How are you feeling?”

He bites his lip. “Um. Weird.”

Ferdinand laughs again. “I understand. I nearly set our old apartment on fire, I was so nervous in the weeks before my audition. But you’ve no need to worry, Felix, you’ll be fantastic.”

He hums again. If he said anything, he’s sure it’d be too abrasive for Ferdinand’s chipper belief in him. Sometimes it was fun to mess with the human golden retriever, but right now it’d feel too cruel. “Thank you for making me submit,” he says instead, and he means it.

Ferdinand was probably the only friend he managed to make during his time in his university’s orchestra, in part because they played different instruments, and the other part being his insistence on befriending every other person in the group. Felix never spent time with the other sections and was too paranoid to befriend the other cellists (except for Lysithea, maybe, but that was less of a friendship and more a rivalry for first chair), but Ferdinand was insistent and annoying about it. Giving into friendship was easier, in the end, and soon enough Ferdinand was dating Mercedes anyway, so it just made sense.

And now he’s really the only person Felix talks to about music. Funny how that worked out.

“Of course,” Ferdinand says again, taking on a more serious tone. “I’m glad I was able to be of assistance. You deserve these opportunities.”

Objections lodge themselves in Felix’s throat. He got lucky, he decides, and it won’t happen again. Felix will have to work a miracle if he’s going to win the seat at this audition. His fingers flex, mimicking the opening bars to the piece he’s been working on. If he drills it daily, maybe there will be a chance. He needs to start, now.

“I’ll text you when I look at flights tonight,” he says, standing up. The chilled air hits his bones, a reminder that he’s just been sitting in running gear in freezing temperatures, and he shivers once, head to toe. “I’m in the middle of a run, I just wanted to let you know.”

“You called me first?” Ferdinand coos. Felix rolls his eyes.

“It was a logical thing, calm down. Bye for now.”

He’s still laughing through a goodbye when Felix hangs up.

When he gets back, he plays for three hours straight. The newfound motivation and pressure spurs him through his most productive session in weeks, and it’s such a welcome change of pace Felix actually regrets needing to stop to eat.

Ingrid’s back from work and in the kitchen making tea when he emerges to heat up the fourth day of Thanksgiving leftovers. (He and Sylvain may have gone a little overboard with the shopping, he admits.) He greets her with a grunt as he starts his plate.

“I really like the piece you’re working on,” Ingrid says conversationally. “What’s it called?”

His lips twitch down instinctively. “It’s Mendelssohn. Cello Sonata No. 2, the last movement.”

Ingrid nods. “It’s nice. Does it have piano?” It’s a casual enough question, but it makes Felix groan. “What?” She asks, defensive.

“Nothing, I just realized I’ll need an accompanist.” He pulls his phone out to type out a text to Ferdinand asking if he recommends anyone in the area. Preferably with a decent rate, considering he’d rather not ask his father for money.

“For what?” Ingrid asks. Felix hums, not paying attention, and Ingrid asks again. Felix stops typing, his thumbs hovering over the touchscreen, when he registers her question.

“I’ve got an audition. It’s _not_ a big deal—” Ingrid’s excited clapping cuts him off.

“Felix that’s fantastic!” She’s beaming at him, and her energy is regrettably infectious, even if misplaced. “Where at?”

“The CSO. Chicago,” he clarifies. “Where Ferdinand plays.” Recognition lands in her eyes as they pointedly ignore the Mercedes in the statement, but she still smiles and pushes his shoulder playfully.

“That’s huge! I’m excited for you.”

“What’s huge?” Sylvain calls from the sofa. He laughs abruptly, stopping Ingrid short. “Wait, I know, it’s my—”

“Shut up,” he and Ingrid say in sync. Sylvain only laughs harder. “Felix has an audition at the CSO!” Ingrid says over it.

Sylvain manages to stop laughing long enough to stand and lean across the counter. “I didn’t know you were going for orchestras.”

Felix shrugs and places his plate in the microwave. “I’m not, really. I don’t know. Ferdinand had me send tapes out.”

Sylvain purses his lips, like he’s considering something, but Ingrid continues before he says anything. “What are you going to play?”

“I have to bring a solo of my own choice, and then there are required excerpts. I’m familiar with them all but one.” And he’s acutely nervous about it.

“You should ask Byleth for help! I’m sure she’ll have good advice.”

Felix blinks at Ingrid. Byleth— he hadn’t even thought about reaching out to her.

“She’s your old professor, right? The one you were obsessed with?” Sylvain’s smile is full of smarm when Felix glares his way.

“I wasn’t obsessed with her,” he snaps. Except, he kind of was, admittedly. Byleth had traveled across the world playing in different orchestras before settling down to become a professor, so her teaching was as sublime as it was ruthless, and Felix thrived under it. She was the reason he chose to go to NYU in the first place. The fact that most of his high school friends ended up there was just a coincidence.

Ingrid’s idea isn’t terrible. He could call Byleth and ask for help preparing for the audition; old students did it all the time while he was there. But the thought is quickly erased by shame. The last they talked was at his recital. She probably had given up on him as a student by now.

He resists the urge to groan and runs a hand over his face. It was fine— he’d figure it out on his own. Maybe if he wins the seat he’d reach out; she’d be happy to hear from then. The microwave’s timer beeps shrilly, stopping him before he spiraled too far into what-if’s.

“I’m going to be practicing a lot,” he says, grabbing his food. The implied _so don’t bother me_ is hopefully understood. Ingrid wishes him luck as he heads back to his room. He says nothing, but he’s grateful; he’ll need it.

* * *

The next week passes in a blur of burst calluses and used rosin. He’s confident enough in one of the excerpts because they happened to study it in their section, but the new one is progressing like a man digging a tunnel with a spoon. He imagines Byleth standing behind him the entire time, correcting bow strokes and fingerings and chiding him for losing count, and wishes he could call her without feeling like an idiot. Instead, he keeps drilling the piece, willing his hands to magically figure it out.

The practicing is made worse when he tries to imagine what the audition will be like. He’s seen countless recordings of performances at the Symphony Center, so it’s easy enough to bring the stage to mind. The issue is the act of playing itself; staring out into the empty seats, wondering what the jurors on the other side of the barrier would be thinking. It’s a small relief that the audition will be blind. Most orchestras switched to auditions that conceal the identity of the players to counteract bias. Felix is just glad he won’t have to see their faces when he makes a mistake.

Felix hasn’t played for anyone since his recital, really. It’s a mistake and he knows it, but it isn’t exactly like he’s been drowning in opportunities. Besides, the entire act of performing just feels soured. He isn’t good enough to have any performance worth giving yet, and that means he’s out of practice.

He cracks his knuckles, relishing the release of tension, and wills the thoughts out of his head as best he can. It’s frustrating; with the audition so close, all his time should be spent on polishing, not bumbling through technical mistakes, but that’s where he’s at. Felix is woefully unprepared, and the way his gut lurches familiarly is a testament to just how long he's known it.

But he can’t just give up. If by a stroke of luck, he figures it out in the coming weeks— if he can manage to just sit down and drill it enough times, maybe he'll make it click. If he just got what he needed to do through his skull, it would be easy. It _should_ be easy.

Hands shaking, but with a re-energized determination, Felix places his bow to string, inhales sharply through his nose, and starts once more.

It is only natural, then, that at that moment Sylvain swings open his bedroom door and strolls right in.

Felix would have snapped the neck of his cello clean off if his body wasn't constantly attuned to keeping the instrument safe. He feels the yell start more than he hears it: "Syl _vain—"_

But Sylvain's smiling with wide, nearly manic eyes and erupts in a disarming laugh. It catches Felix so thoroughly off-guard that he stops, mouth still open to berate. Sylvain moves to Felix, sitting on the edge of his bed and gesturing silently but forcefully to the phone pressed against his ear in one smooth motion.

"Right you are, _Mr. Fraldarius!"_ Sylvain manages to sound amicable despite the clear panic in his face. All thoughts of murder leave Felix at once— what is Sylvain doing talking to his father? Sylvain must see the question form on Felix's face because he waves his hand once, clearly signaling Felix to stay quiet. Felix decides to follow the command only because he's still reeling over the fact that his father has Sylvain's phone number.

Sylvain hums a nonsense affirmative to the phone, nodding as if Rodrigue could see him, and worries his lip between his teeth. It decidedly isn't an endearing action, so Felix focuses on carefully setting his cello aside instead.

"Yes, I've got him here with me now," Sylvain says, shooting another worried look towards Felix's way. He lets out another laugh, short and high pitched. "Yeah, he was, and I'm sure he'll be mad all week about me interrupting."

Felix frowns when he connects the dots of their conversation. Why are they talking about him? Why are they talking at all?

He shifts from his chair to sit next to Sylvain on his bed. Their knees knock as he moves, and it takes all of his willpower to keep his face from heating as his brain wildly processes _Sylvain, bed, close_ as if it was reciting concepts in a new language. Sylvain's eyes track him carefully, and Felix looks to the floor and gestures at his ear, asking Sylvain to bring the phone closer.

Sylvain obliges, holding the smartphone in the space between their heads. They're both leaning in carefully, and Felix focuses very hard on the sound of his father's voice rather than the way he can feel the heat emanating from where Sylvain's thigh rests near his.

"Could you please put me on speaker phone then? It will be simpler to have this discussion with you both present, actually," Rodrigue says over the line. His father is as level as always, which adds a flavor of spite to the overwhelming confusion Felix is experiencing. He looks at Sylvain for some sort of cue, but then their faces are entirely too close and Sylvain still has a look of fear in his eyes. Felix twists his head forward with urgency.

"I'm— are you sure?" Sylvain asks. "I think it may be easier—"

"No, no, I am certain. You two are awful liars when you're together, which will make this quicker." His dad sounds tired, then, and it couldn't be more at odds with the way every thought possible is racing through Felix's mind.

He takes care to lean away before looking at Sylvain again. Sylvain stares back, clearly conflicted, but he taps the speaker phone icon on his phone and exhales softly. "Alright, you're on speaker," he says.

"Hello, Felix."

His father's voice now easy to hear, Felix quickly pushes away on his bed, adding distance between the two of them.

"Father," Felix greets.

"You weren't answering your phone," his father says, not quite scolding. Felix nearly huffs, but he continues. "I know you were practicing. But what if it was an emergency?"

Felix's fists clench of their own accord. Emergencies are precisely why he turns his phone off now. "That'd be shit luck," Felix responds. He isn't entirely sure what he means. His father must understand anyway, as he sighs in response.

"I'm not calling to start this again, son. In fact, I don't want to start any sort of… issue."

Sylvain's leg starts bouncing up and down, and the action makes Felix's bed creak. It is entirely unnerving and makes him realize Sylvain knows something he doesn't, which is never a good thing.

"Why are you calling then? Why are you calling _Sylvain?"_

His father’s voice is slow and tempered: "Well, funnily enough, he was the only one who answered when I tried to call and discover the truth regarding how long my son's been living with his secret boyfriend. It just so happened to work out that Sylvain is also said boyfriend."

Felix blinks. Sylvain's leg keeps bouncing.

"You…" Felix tries. You _what?_ What was he wanting to ask? You found out? You believe that? You kept Sylvain's number?

"I'm not upset," his father continues in a tone which clearly indicates that he is very upset. "But I will say I never expected to hear that you two finally got together several months after the fact, and from Arthur Galatea, of all people."

Thoughts chase each other in circles in his head. Of course the Galateas told everyone. Had they really been so stupid to think their little ploy wouldn't matter after they got away with it? Had Felix really let himself be so shortsighted? _Finally?_

"He's making that face," Rodrigue says, like he's placing a bet.

"He is," Sylvain confirms quietly. "Like he stepped in a puddle wearing socks."

Felix manages to glare at Sylvain, but there's no heat in it. It may not be necessary anyway; Sylvain clearly looks distraught and is watching him with concern.

Felix clears his throat. He doesn't need Sylvain's help with his own father. "What of it?" He says with as much bite as he can muster. For all that he wants to shut it down, Felix isn't sure he could do so without jeopardizing Ingrid, and if he has realized anything it's that he needs to try and actually _think_ before he does anything big like that.

"Nothing, it's just…" his father trails off. Felix focuses on keeping his breath steady, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Sylvain's free hand fidget in his lap.

"What have I done to make you feel you couldn't tell me something so important?"

The phone line hums in the empty space. Felix has no idea what to say in response, no idea how to cram so much into a reasonable amount of words, no idea why he feels guilt, of all things, over a fake relationship when his father would have no right to learn of any real one Felix may ever have in the first place.

Everything. Nothing. His father has somehow done it all.

There's a gentle tug on his sleeve. He tilts his head and sees Sylvain carefully holding the fabric between two fingers. He can feel his gaze on him, but can't chance looking at anything besides his hand.

Sylvain rubs his thumb over the fabric, soothing. Felix indulges for a moment, a mistake, and pulls his arm away. Sylvain lets him.

Rodrigue sighs again, the phone crackling to life once more. "I'm sorry, Felix. You don't have to answer that. It doesn't matter, now."

 _It never mattered to you,_ he doesn't say. His father continues: "Will you two be coming home for Christmas? We'd like to celebrate. Sylvain, you could stay with us, of course. It's been a long time; it would be a reunion, too, for all of you kids."

The kids being the two of them, Glenn, and Dimitri. They must have heard too. Felix could only dread what their reactions were to the news; surely Glenn must have laughed, thinking it a joke until his father didn't break. Dimitri probably took his father for his word immediately, like the gullible fool he is. How many people in his old life have accepted that he and Sylvain are dating without question?

"No," Felix says, voice final. Even if things were different, normal, he wouldn't be going back. It was hard enough to get away in the first place.

"Felix, we didn't even get a call from you for Thanksgiving," his father takes on a warning voice.

"I was busy," he shoots back. It wasn't a lie.

His father starts again, but his voice is muffled. The line picks up on Glenn's voice and he catches snippets of them squabbling and the phone being rubbed against fabric.

"You shit!" Glenn greets affectionately, voice suddenly crisp.

"Glenn."

"So what's this about you not coming 'round for the holidays?"

"Glenn," he repeats, a warning.

"If you don't bring your boy toy home, we're coming to you, you know that, right?"

Felix cannot stop a strangled noise from escaping his throat. Sylvain brings the phone closer to his face.

"Hi, Glenn. Boy toy's on the call, too."

"Sylvainie boy!" Glenn actually sounds pleased to hear from Sylvain. But then, Glenn loves anything that makes Felix miserable. "How's it been? Pops told us you made it to Korea during your adventures."

"I did, yeah. Things are good!" Sylvain dives into niceties, and Felix stands up from the bed, restless and needing release in the form of pacing.

Glenn's chuckle comes through the phone, and Felix snaps back when he hears the shift to his brother's serious voice. "Listen, though, drag him back for us, will you? Or, Felix," he raises his voice, as if Felix couldn't hear him, "Apologize to Ingrid, because we're coming. God, I can't believe you let the Galateas see your apartment before us, twerp."

"Don't come here," he says fiercely.

"Come home then," Glenn counters. Felix glares at the phone. "We miss you. It's been years since we've seen Sylvain. It's the holidays, come on."

When Felix doesn't respond, Glenn must move the phone, because there's a sudden rustling again. Then, quieter: "Seriously. Dad's miserable not hearing from you. Dima too. I get it, I do, but we're family."

 _Dimitri isn't,_ he manages to bite back. He doesn't have it in him to go down that road again with Glenn.

He doesn't know what to do, what to say. There's no clear way to sidestep the lie, or shake Glenn off now that he's decided they'll spend the holidays together one way or another.

Felix looks to Sylvain. He's just watching him, features calmer than before. There's a surprising lack of judgment, as if Sylvain is waiting for him to make a decision. It doesn't make sense to him; there is no possibility of Sylvain just being fine with Felix subjecting him to his family. Glenn is insufferable enough as it is, and he's sure Sylvain is already picturing how hellish his brother could be now that he thinks they’re dating.

Felix considers more what it would be like, bringing Sylvain to his family, back to the place where they grew up side-by-side. Immediately he knows it would be impossible. He couldn’t maintain this lie, not to anyone else, not in his childhood home. He couldn't manage knowing how his father and Glenn would treat Sylvain as his boyfriend only for it all to be fake. For all that he hates himself, Felix is not interested in subjecting himself to such an indelible torture.

Glenn clears his throat, prompting him. Felix opens his mouth to say "I don't want to see you."

Instead, he says: "I'm not ready to see you."

He can hear Glenn's breath and he rushes to continue. "With him, I mean. With Sylvain."

"Oh, please," Glenn laughs, and the tension is gone. "Like we didn't all see this coming. Don't worry about that."

Sylvain's face does something weird, nearly sad, and Felix swallows dryly. "You and Father keep saying that," Felix says, frustrated again. "Stop."

Glenn laughs again, and Felix hates him. "Only you'd get offended by that. Look, I'll text Ingrid and we'll talk dates for our visit then, okay? On your hometurf."

The teasing does not assuage any of Felix's feelings. "What if you didn't do that?" Felix tries, aware he's lost.

"Nah. You want to talk to Dimitri before you hang up on me?"

"Goodbye," he says, and steps over to aggressively tap the end call button. Sylvain manages a quick goodbye before the line is cut.

It is suddenly very, very quiet. Felix tries to process everything.

"This is terrible," he says, eventually. Sylvain actually snorts.

"Oh no, my family's dedicated to seeing me and my new boyfriend over the holidays. Woe is me," Sylvain mocks, waving his hands in the air. Felix sucks in a sharp breath.

"I didn't mean…" He trails off, but Sylvain's shrugging and falling back against his bedspread.

"I know you didn't," he says simply.

They go quiet again, but somehow this one feels different. Sylvain's staring at the ceiling, arms resting on his stomach, and Felix feels like he can hear how loudly Sylvain is thinking, just like him. He cautiously sits back down on his bed.

"Are you alright?" Felix asks, hesitant. He doesn't know why he does, but it feels like what he is supposed to say.

Sylvain raises his eyebrows. "Me? I'm fine." His tone borders his normal, casual ease, enough to make Felix think he may be telling the truth. "Are you?"

Felix shrugs. He isn't sure.

"I didn't think of them finding out," he says honestly. Sylvain nods, prompting him to continue. Felix tugs his ponytail out in frustration and redoes it to busy his hands. "I don't know if I can maintain the lie around them."

Sylvain nods again. "Do you think they'd tell the Galateas?"

"My father abhors lying," Felix says by way of answering. His father also has his fair share of frustrations with the Galateas, but his ridiculous devotion to honor above all else would have him throw Felix and Sylvain under the bus before the Fraldarius name took any further slander, of this Felix is sure.

They sit in silence again. Felix is wondering if there was a way he could sabotage all ground and air travel for the duration of the year when Sylvain starts laughing. It's quiet at first, but quickly grows when Felix regards him with a baffled expression.

"What is wrong with you?" Felix asks, bewildered. Sylvain clutches at his chest.

"It's just," he manages. "I realized I'm going to re-meet your family. I don't think I've ever met a partner's family before, and my first time won't even be real."

Felix scowls. "That isn't funny. That's pathetic. You're wasting my firsts, too."

Sylvain stops laughing abruptly and Felix's hands go cold. He quickly turns away. "Will you leave?" He asks, voice harsh. "I need to finish practicing."

The mattress dips as Sylvain sits up. Felix does not look over, even when he feels Sylvain willing him to with his stare. It’s not like Sylvain didn’t know that Felix was lacking in dating experience. In fact, Felix is certain Sylvain knows the exact extent of it all up until the point that they stopped talking, and the general pattern of disaster that is his life afterwards shouldn’t leave much uncertainty.

“I don’t want them to be wasted,” Sylvain says eventually. Felix shrugs.

“Well. Here we are.”

Another long moment passes, and Sylvain scoots closer to Felix. "Listen, I'll handle everything with your family."

Felix's brow furrows. "What?"

"So you won't have to worry," Sylvain explains. "I'll figure out a plan. A good one, too, so your first time introducing someone to the family isn't terrible. Even if it is me."

"I don't understand why you care," Felix says, cutting no corners.

Sylvain leans so that he's in Felix's line of sight. Felix blinks at him, and Sylvain glances across his face. Then, he grins, slow and genuine.

"Maybe that's why I'm trying to show you that I do."

Sylvain’s eyes are shining, the light brown of his irises like coffee foam and polished wood. The angle of his head sends his curls slowly cascading across his freckled forehead, and his grin widens, the closest to sincere Felix has ever seen on him. Sylvain is beautiful, and Felix is breathless and unconvinced.

When it’s clear Felix has nothing to say, Sylvain stands and leaves his room. It takes Felix a long time before he's able to pick his cello back up.

* * *

That night, Ingrid asks why Glenn sent her eight texts about coming to visit while she was at work. She laughs for only a few minutes when Felix sourly explains the situation.

"This is your fault," he reminds her.

"I know, and I'm sorry, but," she stops to muffle an incredulous giggle, "Oh, this is going to go terribly. We're doomed."

"Sylvain insists he'll actually handle it."

"Yeah, well Glenn's going to _actually_ castrate him."

"There are worse things," Felix says with a smirk.

"There really aren't!" Sylvain yells across the room.

Ingrid laughs harder.

* * *

The number of days before his family arrives quickly dwindles down, yet Felix finds himself hardly paying it any mind. His audition date isn't far behind, and it somehow looms even higher over him.

Felix practices, and practices, and practices. His last two excerpts taunt him, holding the same shape as their start. His attempts at cutting them into a polished form are futile, the efforts bouncing off like stone against diamond.

He doesn't have enough time.

Sleep continues to torture him. He wakes from a nightmare, coughing the memories of it from his lungs like smoke, and wonders if he'll ever have enough time, or if this is what it means to be Felix Fraldarius: a moment behind, with a better outcome always just out of reach, yet close enough to be so tauntingly, achingly imaginable.

It'd be easier to lose if he never saw the finish line.

When he falls asleep again, Felix dreams of cellos made of glass and bows made of lead and an orchestra silent, waiting for him.

* * *

It is two days before Felix's family will arrive and make him unbearably infuriated in the name of holiday cheer, and Sylvain is awake before him, which is practically unheard of and undoubtedly a bad sign.

He pushes a large Tim Hortons cup across the counter when Felix slips into the kitchen. “Good morning,” he says happily, and then takes a photo of Felix. He dives for the phone, but Sylvain holds it behind him like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Don’t be like that, I got your order. A large single single, yeah?”

It is, unfortunately, his order. Settling for deleting the photo later when Sylvain’s forgotten, Felix reluctantly takes a sip of his drink. “What’s the occasion?”

“Drove Ingrid to work and desperately needed caffeine after. You know she goes in early?” As if to punctuate his sentence, Sylvain drinks from his own cup. According to the writing, he still orders a triple triple, which is disgusting.

Felix lifts his drink and nods in thanks and continues to go about getting breakfast. “You know, Felix,” Sylvain continues, “Most people would follow up with a ‘why’d you drive Ingrid to work’.”

“I’m not most people,” Felix deadpans. He turns to his cereal to hide a self-satisfied grin when Sylvain releases an exaggerated sigh.

“Come on, ask! It’s a great answer, you’re gonna love it.”

He is certain he won’t. “Fine. Why did you drive Ingrid to work?”

Sylvain twirls Ingrid’s keys around his finger, leaning into his other palm with a wide smile. “I needed her car for all the dates I’m taking you on today.”

He closes his eyes tight and exhales slowly. “No.”

“Yes! Remember when I said I’d make a plan?” Sylvain lugs his duffel bag up on the counter and pushes it towards Felix. “It’s happening. Grab some clothes, we’re going on at least six dates today and we need to look cute in them all.”

Felix pushes the bag back towards Sylvain and tries very hard not to think about Sylvain looking cute on any sort of date. “Has anyone ever informed you how idiotic you are? My family isn’t here yet.”

“That’s the point, you asshole,” Sylvain says, no mirth in his voice. “Your dad was right, we can’t lie for shit together. So I figure, why not do stuff we don’t need to lie about? It’s hard to pretend we’re dating when the last time we hung out was two years ago.”

“And whose fault is that?” Felix snaps without thinking. Sylvain’s smile drops and takes Felix’s heart with it. He still doesn’t want to have this conversation. “Whatever,” he says quickly. “I’ve got to practice, anyway.”

Sylvain runs a hand over his face. “Felix, please. All you’ve done is practice. And I understand, it’s very important, but don’t you need rest days?”

“I don’t have time for rest days.” He woke up with the impending audition date already kick-starting his heart rate. Sylvain’s only making it worse.

“One day. That’s all I’m asking for. You know Glenn’s going to smell something’s fishy when we don’t have a single photo together, my life is plastered on Instagram.” Sylvain waves his phone in the air, and Felix takes the opportunity to snatch it out of his hand. “Hey, stop!”

Luckily for Sylvain, Felix already had. Sylvain must have changed his lock screen from the last time Felix saw it, because he’s staring at a photo of himself curled up in the lounge chair, smirking at something on the television. He’s never seen it before, and he definitely had no idea it was being taken— Felix doesn’t do smiling in photos.

“When did you take this?”

“Thanksgiving night. I changed it this morning, because again, we need to try harder if we’re going to convince Glenn and your dad.” He holds his hand out to Felix, wiggling his fingers to get his phone back. “Plus, it’s cute.”

“Ha,” Felix manages, forcefully giving it back. His chest feels tight still, which is annoying and worrying at the same time. Sylvain changing his lock screen was a chore to him, at best, and it doesn’t mean anything. Felix shouldn’t want it to, anyway.

But he does have a point. His family are infuriatingly good at reading him, and Glenn will inevitably drill them for details to make fun of them. He was useless when the Galateas asked them a reasonable question. Going into Christmas with the same strategy was asking for a disaster.

“Fine. But we get back early; I still want to play for at least an hour.”

Sylvain pumps his fist in the air and jostles some of his abomination of a coffee onto the counter. “Oh, it’ll be so fun, Fraldarius. Prepare to be wooed.”

He rolls his eyes, but takes the duffel bag with him to pack.

* * *

Twenty minutes later and they’re sitting in Ingrid’s Subaru Outback, Sylvain driving them somewhere downtown. Despite Felix’s increasingly gruesome threats, Sylvain doesn’t divulge any information about his plans for the day.

It’s an otherwise quiet ride, save for Sylvain humming along to the alt radio station and checking directions on his phone, which leaves Felix plenty of time to stew in his worries about practicing and uncertainties for the day. When Sylvain finally parks on a side road, Felix feels close to forcibly usurping control of the car and turning around. Instead, he calmly steps out and follows Sylvain to the door of a small bakery café.

“Ingrid said she likes this place,” Sylvain supplies as he opens the door for them. Felix steps inside and glances around the place.

“Wonder why,” he says dryly, staring at the horse saddles-turned-barstools that line the coffee bar. The wall is plastered with photographs of horses, trinkets of horses, horse murals, and more— Ingrid’s definitely tried to drag him here before, he thinks. Sylvain steps in behind him and makes a stunned, astonished sound and Felix glances at him with a smirk. “Breaking out all the stops for the wooing, clearly.”

“I should have known,” Sylvain mutters, but he’s got a smile on his face all the same. “Well, we’re just here for food, at least.”

Felix walks further into the café and runs a hand along a wooden horse bust that’s engraved on the side of a display case. “What a shame.”

Sylvain bumps his shoulder against Felix’s as he walks to the front counter and orders them two breakfast sandwiches. Felix tries offering him cash, but Sylvain adamantly refuses, then winks and insists it’s what he does on dates. It would be charming if it wasn’t another reminder of the countless times Sylvain’s done this, and the astonishingly few times Felix has.

“I thought you were broke,” Felix says. Sylvain pouts, overexaggerated and childish.

“Don’t kick a man when he’s trying to be suave, Felix.”

 _I’ll just Venmo him when he forgets,_ Felix decides, opting to roll his eyes as a response. He’d have to ask Ingrid for Sylvain’s username; Felix had deleted most of his social media accounts his last year of undergrad and kept the rest set to private. He hadn’t done it with the intention of preventing Sylvain from reaching out, not exactly, but it was an added bonus.

“Sit on one of those,” Sylvain instructs, pointing to a saddle stool.

“Absolutely not.”

Sylvain waves his phone in the air. “Come on, that’s a prime photo opportunity.”

Felix rolls his eyes and snatches Sylvain’s phone. “If that’s the case, you do it.”

He shrugs, and because egging Sylvain on is always a mistake, says, "Fine." Moments later he’s straddling the saddle and smiling at Felix in an offer-the-top, lascivious show pulled right out of his teenage years. “I always love a good ride."

Felix does not flush and takes the photo with a scowl. “If I could, I would break up with you for that. We’re in public,” he mutters, shoving the phone back into Sylvain’s hands.

"But you can't!" Sylvain chirps happily. One of the staff members slides their sandwiches across the counter and Sylvain quickly snaps a selfie as Felix grabs them. He can't see the final photo, but he imagines it's mostly Sylvain's face. "We're stuck like glue, you and I."

Unfortunately, Felix realizes as he takes a bite, Sylvain remembers his breakfast order, too.

"For now," Felix reminds them both.

* * *

Felix's next three dates are a whirlwind. They bounce around downtown Buffalo in Ingrid's car from locale to locale. They hardly stay longer than a few minutes, only so long as for Sylvain to take a ridiculous selfie or capture Felix frowning as Sylvain attempts to pose him. Somewhere in the camera roll is a series of shots that begins with Sylvain trying to take Felix's hand from behind the camera and ends with his blurry arm knocking the phone through the air.

It isn't a completely terrible time, and Felix manages revenge for all the unflattering images Sylvain's collecting when he convinces him they're sneaking into an exhibit at the Albright-Knox. Sylvain covertly sneaks around the displays, having entirely too much fun for a man in an art exhibit, and Felix captures the moment when the security guard tells a cornered Sylvain _it's a pay what you want entrance fee_ and _please stop hiding behind the displays, sir, you're frightening the other patrons._ When Sylvain skulks back out of the doors, Felix drops ten dollars in the donation box.

"This made me realize something," Felix says as they reach the car. Sylvain glares at him as he throws the door open and tugs his sweater over his head.

"That lies and deception are unsatisfying and your loving boyfriend deserves an apology?"

Felix rolls his eyes. "Put on the nicest thing you've brought next." Turning away from Sylvain (it's just following locker room rules, he thinks), Felix starts changing as well.

"Why?"

"If we were dating, I'd be dragging you to the Buffalo Philharmonic every other week. So we'll need at least one in the lobby."

It's quiet as Felix finishes buttoning his next shirt and shrugging his parka back on. Sylvain's face is scrunched in thought as he adjusts his collar under a tight crimson sweater.

"For the record," Sylvain says, almost carefully, "that was the first idea I had, but I didn't want to push the music thing."

Felix can't help the way his eyebrow raises. "You know I won't crumple at the sight of a music hall, right?"

"No, I know. Never mind."

Felix considers the conversation dropped until they're walking through the doors of the building. "You know, I'm sad we aren't actually seeing a performance," Sylvain says, glancing over the ads displaying the orchestra's season. "The ones you did at NYU were so brilliant, but I haven't seen one since."

Felix tempers his gut feelings into a frown. "Didn't you travel Europe?"

Sylvain gives him a confused look. "I traveled to lots of places?"

"So you were in the vicinity of some of the best orchestras in the world and saw none of them?"

"Oh," Sylvain says. "Yeah, I guess so." He pauses a moment. "I didn't really want to, then."

Felix snatches two discarded programs from a recycling bin nearby. "Well I work here part time, so I can get us into shows if they're not sold out."

Sylvain blinks at him instead of taking the program from his outstretched hand. "Really?"

It occurs to Felix he just proposed they actually see a performance, at a later date, for fun, _together._

"Uh, maybe," he mutters, pushing the creased paper against Sylvain's chest. "Just take the photo."

Sylvain does. And, in a stroke of luck for Felix, he makes no comment on the bright flush on Felix's face.

* * *

For what he assures Felix is the second to last date, Sylvain confidently leads them inside a hip, bustling restaurant decorated to the nines with tinsel and other Christmas decorations to a table where an admittedly intimidating looking woman is already sitting. She glances up and down Felix twice and he scowls in response. The scowl furthers of its own accord when Sylvain leans down to press a familiar kiss to her cheek.

"Sorry we're a little late," Sylvain says warmly. He slides into the booth across her and turns to Felix, smiling broadly. "Felix, this is Dorothea! We met while I was abroad, and it turns out she's in town."

Just Felix's luck that Sylvain would try to rekindle an old hook up while dragging him across the city. He probably thought this was the only way to get something valuable out of the day. "I don't want to meet another of your conquests," Felix says finally, glaring at this Dorothea woman.

Sylvain guffaws, but Dorothea only raises a slender eyebrow. "You know, Sylvie, for all you've said about him, I don't think you gave me enough warning regarding Felix's overwhelming charm."

“What a shame he’s never mentioned you at all,” Felix shoots back.

 _“Felix,”_ Sylvain warns, "Dorothea is my _friend,_ and also a _person,_ and generally we try to treat people decently when we first meet them.” He pulls firmly at Felix's arm to get him to sit down next to him. Felix doesn't budge.

"Well, if we're discussing first impressions, he's doing miles better than you did, Sylvain." Dorothea leans across the table and winks playfully at Felix. "You know he tried to kiss me on a dance floor and threw up on my shoes instead? They were Louboutins and everything." Sylvain groans and covers his face with his hands.

"Can you please stop telling people that?"

Felix glares a little less. "And you became his friend?"

Dorothea smiles sweetly. "No, but he burst into tears when I told him it was alright, and I've just felt bad for him since then."

"That sounds embarrassing," Felix says slowly.

"Oh, it was, for him. Still is, clearly."

Felix sits down in the booth. "I apologize for what I said. Please tell me more of how Sylvain's an idiot."

"With pleasure.” She grins at Felix, and he decides he likes her, actually.

As it turns out, Dorothea's as interesting as she is cutthroat, and Felix doesn’t feel like he isn’t wasting his breath talking with her. By the time their food arrives, Felix learns they’ve got several mutual acquaintances from music programs and that she was cast again in the Met Opera’s current season after debuting in last year’s. Sylvain sheepishly reveals that's why he wanted them to meet: "Because, you know, music."

"You do realize symphonies and operas are different?" Felix asks, rolling his eyes.

"Now, now, Felix,” Dorothea says, a smile full of smarm spreading across her face, “You've got to be gentle with this one. Too many criticisms all at once and he'll fall apart."

Sylvain picks up his beef on weck with more bitterness than any man ever has before. "This was such a mistake."

"Speak for yourself," Dorothea says with a smirk. Sylvain pouts even harder.

"How long until you leave Buffalo again?" He mutters.

Taking his jab in stride, Dorothea shrugs. "I haven't decided. Maybe a few weeks, maybe months, maybe only days. My friends have their lease through the spring." Sylvain nods, as if what Dorothea said makes any sense at all.

"Aren't you in the middle of your season?" Felix asks, his confused frown furthering when Dorothea nods.

"I withdrew from the remaining shows I was in this season," she elaborates.

"Oh," is all Felix can think of saying. "I'm… sorry?"

It must sound as ridiculous as it feels to say, because Dorothea's laughing in a way that makes him want to squirm in his seat under her attention. "Don't be. I wanted to."

Felix takes a sip of his water instead of responding, considering he's even more lost now. You don't exactly break a contract with the Met and have your career survive with no bridges burned. If Felix were in her position, he'd sooner ruin his vocal chords than withdraw from their season.

"You seem perplexed," Dorothea supplies, plucking a french fry between two manicured nails and taking a bite. "Please, lay your judgments on the table for all to see."

Felix sputters. "I wasn't— it's not _judgment,"_ he says quickly. He glances to Sylvain, whose bemused expression is half covered in au jus. _Useless,_ he thinks. "I'm just surprised to hear that. People dream of landing a role at the Met. I've never heard of someone stepping away."

Dorothea hums in thought. "Well, the thing about dreams is that they very rarely reflect reality."

"I know that," Felix snaps.

"Then you know that sometimes dreams are better left unattainable."

Felix gets the impression that Dorothea's not just talking about the Met, but whatever else she means is lost on him. He glances at Sylvain again, but he's looking up at the twinkling lights hanging above them and Felix can't get a good read on his expression.

"Well, what made you want to withdraw?" Felix asks slowly, repeating her words. She sighs and brushes her hair behind her shoulder.

"All of it, really. Don't get me wrong, I loved performing with them, and I still want to sing, but…" She grabs another fry, but she just twirls it between her fingers instead of eating it. "I suppose I just didn't understand what it would mean for performing to be a job instead of a passion."

"Can't it be both?"

Dorothea looks up at him with an amused and inexplicably tired look in her eyes, and Felix realizes this must be a question she's asked herself countless times. "Can it?" She asks, genuine.

"I think so." He knows so, actually, like he knows every curve of his cello and the weight of a bow in his hand. There's never been a difference between a passion and a job, not for him, not when it came to playing. It was the only thing he's ever felt certain of: that performing is what he was meant to do.

The audition date is coming, he remembers. Restlessness shoots through his body like a shockwave. _This needs to end soon._

Lacking Felix's unspoken urgency, Sylvain stretches languidly next to him, throwing his arms back over the top of the bench. "I think part of making art involves periods when you make none," he offers. "Especially nowadays. Everything’s too fast. You need time to experience things before you can recreate them."

"Does your editor buy that excuse?" Felix mutters. It catches Sylvain off guard, and a sharp, joyous laugh bursts out of him, doing something odd and warm in contrast to the clench of nerves in Felix's gut.

"Please, Bernadetta understands that better than anyone else."

Dorothea lights up across from them. "Oh, how is Bernie? We keep having to raincheck on our FaceTimes."

"She's good, still at that same place. Her green room exploded even more since when we were there." There's a wide smile on Sylvain's face as he talks, a smile that Felix recognizes from when he would talk about Ingrid or Dimitri when they weren't around. It's nice.

They make eye contact, and the smile widens. "Oh, Thea, can you take a photo of us? We need it to convince Felix's family we've been secretly dating."

"Sure," Dorothea says easily, taking his phone.

Felix elbows Sylvain in the gut. "You told her?"

"Only just now!" Sylvain whines and rubs his side. Felix looks back to Dorothea, perplexed.

"And you just accepted that?"

Dorothea shrugs and adjusts her hair as she takes a quick selfie on Sylvain's phone. "It doesn't even reach the top five of the weirdest things he's asked for help with."

Sylvain scoots closer to Felix in the booth. "Guess I'm a weird guy these days," he says, grinning at Felix.

"These days?" Felix says with a smirk. Sylvain wraps an arm around his shoulders, and before Felix can react the sound of a camera's shutter chimes out from Sylvain's phone.

Felix jerks away from Sylvain as Dorothea coos: "Ooo, send me this, it's cute."

He feels heat creep up his neck. "What? Show us."

Dorothea turns the phone around and reveals her selfie shining bright on the screen. "I was talking about mine," she says knowingly.

Felix decides he's _neutral_ about Dorothea, actually.

* * *

Sylvain insists they're nearly done as they pull away from the restaurant with two cups of coffee to go. "Then you can practice, I promise!"

Felix takes a petty sip of his coffee instead of responding. They're hardly driving for long before Sylvain clears his throat.

"So, Dorothea?" He asks.

Felix raises his eyebrows. "That's her name, yes."

"You got along well," Sylvain points out. Felix quickly replays their conversations.

"If you say so."

"You did," he confirms. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel as he slows the car to a stop at a traffic light. It's nearly evening, which means the dreary winter light is already starting to fade, and smooth shadows are spreading across Sylvain’s face as he stares straight ahead. "You like her?"

Felix has no idea what the point of this conversation is. "I guess?"

"Cool. That's cool. I thought so, so I'm glad."

"Why does it matter so much to you if I like her?" Felix asks, more confused than anything else.

"I mean, it isn't a huge deal or anything," Sylvain says quickly. He laughs once, like he's trying to push the topic away with the sound. "I just didn't actually make that many friends when I was traveling. Made even fewer who stuck around."

Felix waits for more of an explanation. Eventually, Sylvain says simply: "Dorothea stuck around."

He picks his words carefully. "She's important, then?"

Sylvain nods. "So I'm glad you got along."

Felix sits silently, wondering if the weight in his words was intentional, or if Sylvain still has the habit of throwing Felix counterfeited intimacy like pocket change. He imagines, then, what it would be like to introduce Sylvain to Annette. They'd tear Felix's dignity to shreds immediately, without a doubt, and he has a sudden and horrified empathy for Sylvain's time at the restaurant.

But they'd definitely get along, he thinks. It's an upsetting thought to have.

"We're here," Sylvain says softly, shaking Felix from his thoughts. He gets out of the car abruptly, suddenly needing air, and is met with cutting winds buffeting his face.

“Why are we at the _lakefront?_ It's _winter,"_ He hisses, turning his back to the wind and tugging his hood up. Sylvain’s faring no better with his hair flying everywhere and smacking his face.

“Romantic sunset walk!” He yells back, trying to smile. He’s got their coffee cups in his hands and shoves Felix’s at him when he rounds the car. “I didn’t think it’d suck this much! Come on, we’ll be quick!”

With a wink, Sylvain turns and runs off closer to the sidewalk running alongside the crashing waves of the lake. His hair, bright and crimson, whips in the wind, cutting a sharp contrast to the overcast and overwhelmingly dreary excuse of a sunset around him, as if someone had struck a match to melt the residual snow and ice that clings to the asphalt like traffic lines. Winter’s desaturation seems to bounce off of him, only refracting his light and spreading it further. It isn’t that the world is suddenly made warm by Sylvain, but that he’s brought the possibility of it: of a spring sun swooping in and returning color to the city, the lake, the clouds, the air. The last of Felix’s breath is sucked out into the gusts blowing past him as he watches Sylvain run.

He doesn’t understand how a single action, just a few mere seconds of movement, can shrink the entire world down to just here, just now, just Sylvain. The man in question, the only one left on this planet, looks back to him and waves him over. Felix can’t hear it, but he sees Sylvain’s laugh, and he raises his hand to wave back. Sylvain’s laugh disappears, replaced by sharp panic, and Felix’s world expands again.

Sylvain’s screaming and running after Felix’s coffee cup as the wind rushes it away. Without thinking, Felix takes off after it as well. He hadn’t even realized he dropped it, hadn’t realized anything save for a sneaking revelation about Sylvain that he had never really forgotten in the first place.

They both dive for the coffee cup. Felix’s hand brushes the recycled paper, but before he can grasp it, a heavy weight pushes him down hard into the frozen ground. Sylvain’s chin smacks the earth right next to Felix’s head, and they watch as the cup rolls and tumbles off the ledge. It submerges into the lake with an unsatisfying _plop._

Felix feels Sylvain groan more than he hears it, the vibration cutting through the back of his coat. He tilts his head to see Sylvain sprawled out, half on top of Felix and cradling his face in his hands.

"I tink I bib my tongue," Sylvain whimpers. He's sticking his tongue out and nearly going cross eyed trying to look at it, and Felix can't help it: he bursts into laughter.

Sylvain gives him a deeply affronted look. "This is perious!"

"You look moronic," he manages through a laugh, and twists so that he can reach up and swipe a chunk of snow and mud off of Sylvain's chin. Felix leaves his hand there on Sylvain's jaw for a fraction of a second and watches how his annoyance softens into a comfortable affection. It makes Felix's heart stutter in his chest, and he pushes roughly at Sylvain's shoulder. "You're heavy as shit, get off."

Sylvain rolls off him with ease, and they each take a second to stand and dust themselves off. "Okay, so not my best date idea," Sylvain concedes, raising his voice over another strong gust of wind. He points to a bench overlooking the lake. "Let's snap a pic there?"

Felix expects Sylvain to pull his phone out the moment they sit, but the man seems distracted by the waves crashing up against the rocks on the other side of the railing. They're as gray as the skies, lifeless yet restless, and it makes the horizon seem more of a suggestion than an actual distinction.

"Don't tell me you think it's beautiful," Felix says impatiently.

"Hardly. I was just realizing I've been misremembering what winter looks like here. I think in my mind I made it even drearier than it is."

Felix scoffs. "I'm not sure how you could. It's always looked this depressing."

Sylvain grins, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He looks back at the waves, and another rush of wind cuts through Felix's parka, making him shiver involuntarily. "Listen, Felix, I owe you an explanation for why I left."

His hands curl into tight fists in his pockets. "No, you made that abundantly clear," Felix snaps.

"I really didn't," Sylvain says, his voice steady. "I was spiraling. It's like I wasn't the one making my choices anymore, I felt so disconnected from everything and everyone. I don't even remember leaving. And I hardly remember…" Sylvain pauses abruptly and stares down at his hands. "I hardly remember seeing you."

That night Sylvain singlehandedly shattered Felix, and he doesn't even remember doing it. _That's great. What did you expect?_

"You're not making it better," Felix manages through a sudden rush of nausea.

"I know, I'm not trying to," Sylvain says, exasperated. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated sigh. "I just want to explain.

"I was just operating on auto-pilot. I had been for months. I kept trying to get control of my life and feel like it was _mine,_ but no matter how I tried to ruin my family’s expectations, I was still letting them define me. I didn't fuck off to Vanderbilt because I wanted to, I did it because my parents _didn't,_ the same with dropping out. I kept hoping it’d give me some sort of freedom, but no matter how much I kept trying, everything was still in opposition to all these shitty people. I couldn’t live in any way that wasn’t a response to them."

Sylvain sighs again and leans back against the bench. "What you said after Thanksgiving, about needing to get out of it before it was too late… I relate to that a lot, now, looking back. But at the time I was just living in a haze. Like I said, I don't even remember booking the flight, or my first few months of traveling, really. It was just this sustained fight or flight feeling.” He crosses his arms when he finishes, appearing suddenly like half his size, and keeps glancing at Felix, waiting for something.

Felix doesn’t know what to do with any of this, but Sylvain isn’t apologizing, and Felix doesn’t forgive him. "Okay," he says finally.

"Okay," Sylvain repeats with a wince.

"Well…" Felix tries. "You seem… present, now. What changed?"

"I started journaling," he says without hesitation. "At first it was just to try and keep track of whatever the fuck I was doing, but it helped me feel actually connected to things. I had to actually pay attention to have things to write about. Maybe those therapists actually knew a thing or two,” he adds with a bittersweet note. 

Felix remembers the first few therapists Sylvain burned through in college. He’d call Felix after his sessions and they’d laugh about how much money his parents were throwing away in the hopes of getting their perfect son back. _Get this, Fe, this one wants me to try music. Can’t you just teach me a song, save my inheritance a couple hundred?_

In retrospect, maybe Sylvain wanted him to press harder. Felix hadn’t thought he’d ever want to talk, not about real things. “Maybe,” Felix agrees.

“Somewhere along the way I started writing, too, not just journaling,” Sylvain continues. “That's how I met Bernadetta."

"Your editor?"

"Yeah, she's actually the reason I published in the first place." Sylvain smiles, small and nostalgic. "But first she was my friend. She was just someone who cared."

 _"I_ cared," he mutters, defensiveness snapping through him like a blown fuse. Sylvain's smile turns sad.

"Yeah. You did. I think I wished you didn't."

Felix's brow furrows. "Why?"

"It's easier to hate yourself when everyone else does, too."

He says it easily, but there’s nothing casual about it. In the years Sylvain was gone, Felix tortured himself wondering if Sylvain would ever care about the ways he ruined Felix. On nights when he particularly hated himself, Felix would imagine Sylvain laughing, saying it never even occurred to him as a possibility. Yet for all his imagining, Felix never considered that driving him and all those countless others to hatred was Sylvain’s goal, not just an annoying consequence.

It makes things… different, but not exactly better. Felix exhales slowly, and wonders if it's wrong to understand you were caught in someone’s crossfire and still blame them for shooting, even if they were aiming for themself.

He doesn't know the answer, so Felix stays quiet. The waves of the lake continue to break and splash upwards, just as they always have, and just as they will when the rocks are long since carved away.

"What are you thinking?" Sylvain asks eventually. Felix takes another careful breath.

"I'm thinking about how you're an idiot," he says simply. "And how we could have had this conversation in a place with heating instead of the shore of Lake fucking Eerie."

He stands up abruptly, his knees clenching up from the cold, and looks at Sylvain expectantly. For reasons beyond Felix's comprehension, Sylvain seems far too relieved for what Felix thinks he's said.

"Lead the way, then."

* * *

As they’re driving home, Sylvain asks Felix a question he’s been dreading:

“Did you ever read my book?”

Felix drums his fingers against his armrest. “No.”

“Wait, really? Did you not get the copy I sent? I had one from the first print delivered to everyone.”

Felix got the copy. It fixed an uneven leg of his desk for months. Now it’s probably somewhere in the back of his closet, if he hasn’t already ditched it. He wonders if it’d be better or worse to lie.

“I got it,” he says, finally.

Sylvain sighs, but his mouth is turned upward into a grin. “I’m not sure why I expected anything else.”

“It’s not like you came to my senior recital,” Felix counters, feeling needlessly defensive. Sylvain glances at him from the corner of his eyes, even more amused.

“I didn’t think I was exactly invited.”

“Like you’ve ever needed an invitation,” Felix mutters with a roll of his eyes. Sylvain chuckles to a joke Felix must have missed.

“You are truly something else, Felix Fraldarius,” he says quietly.

Felix scoffs and stays silent the rest of the drive, because the way Sylvain says his name with such bewilderment makes all coherence leave him at once.

_At least that feeling is mutual._

* * *

Neither of them realize they forgot the photo until that evening when Sylvain is showing Ingrid their day's adventures, but Ingrid insists that the ones they have will be more enough.

"It's like looking into another timeline." Ingrid zooms in on a photo of Felix morosely holding a foam sword in the crowded aisle of a toy shop.

"What do you mean?" Felix asks.

"You look like you're having fun for once," she says, and there's such a genuine joy to her voice that it stops Felix in his tracks.

He stares at the back of Sylvain's head. _Fun, huh._ Is that a luxury he could have again? With Sylvain, even? He thinks through the day and how reminiscent it feels to the days when he called Sylvain his best friend. But those were days when he could think of Sylvain without any doubts or insecurities or wounds hidden beneath pretenses and unsaid words, before he understood the cycle of Sylvain’s fleeting attention.

Still, he wonders. Was there a way to try at _friends_ again, at least before he leaves once more?

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and when he pulls it out, a message from his brother stands out against a backdrop of Sylvain sneezing mid-selfie.

_Dad's getting a hotel for us but dima's staying with u. I'll murder u if u make him sleep on the floor <3 _

_There’s no room here. Ask for a rollout._

_I know ing’s got a sofa. Don’t be an ass, ass_

_I’m not being an ass, dick. That’s where Sylvain sleeps._

_You make your boyfriend sleep on the couch??? Damn what’d he do_

It occurs to Felix with a sense of dread that he’s fucked up. Then it occurs to him what fixing it will entail. 

“Oh, _shit.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, feel free to yell at [me](https://twitter.com/sunsetdawnOnTwi) and [Lorelei](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei) on Twitter about Sylvix being hopelessly in love.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Daniel Craig voice] ladies and gentlemen, Glenn Fraldarius
> 
> Thank you to my AU bang partner [Lorelei](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei) for even more art in this chapter! She's phenomenal.
> 
> Small note: this chapter features some characters getting drunk, but no one gets sick.
> 
> Lastly, there are two playlists for this fic that I'll share after it's all posted, but in the mean time, I highly recommend you keep [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l6_w3887Rwo) on hand for this chapter. No reason~
> 
> Enjoy!

"It's fine, we'll just meet you there," Felix insists over the phone.

"Are you sure?" Rodrigue asks for the third time. "I just feel terrible that we're running late."

"Well, get over it, it's not a big deal," he says with an irritated sigh. Their drive was delayed by Glenn's physical therapy being pushed back and then traffic, and his father is acting like they're ruining Christmas because they don't have time to meet before their dinner reservation.

"Well, I will cover dinner, of course," Rodrigue says.

"Fine. Whatever. Bye."

Felix taps the end call button with perhaps too much force. Nearby, Sylvain is gathering the last of his things in his arms.

"It really is hard to listen to you," he says. Felix rolls his eyes.

"Be lucky you can't hear yourself, then."

Sylvain bumps his hip against Felix's as he walks past him to Felix's room. They've moved all traces of Sylvain out of the living room for when Dimitri spends the night with them. Felix isn't panicking about Sylvain spending the night in his room at all, and hasn't been panicking about it for days, rendering himself useless even though his audition is in less than a week.

He's been doing fine.

Ingrid comes out from her room looking nice in a thick sweater and jeans. Her hair's back in a looser half-bun; it's a sharp contrast to when her parents were visiting. "All set?" She asks.

Felix makes a noncommittal noise. "We can go get the table. Sylvain, we're leaving!"

"One sec!" He yells from down the hall. He reappears in a crisp, burgundy button down, and he fusses with his hair as he approaches. Ingrid whistles playfully.

"Handsome," she teases. Sylvain winks.

"Always am."

Felix pulls on his parka. "Time to go,” he says, and hurries out the door.

* * *

They only wait at the host's stand for a few minutes before Glenn erupts through the doors behind them. He and Ingrid immediately embrace, and he gives Felix a cheeky smile over her shoulder.

"Hey, Fe-fe."

Felix begrudgingly allows his brother to hug him next. "Hey."

Dimitri and Rodrigue enter much more calmly, with Dimitri and Ingrid quietly embracing and Rodrigue going straight to shake Sylvain’s hand.

“Sylvain,” he says, with a smile warmer than Felix has seen in months. “It is good to see you.”

Sylvain nods too quickly, but his smile is real. “I agree. You’re looking well, Mr. Fraldarius.”

Glenn makes an inquisitive hum, and Felix realizes they’re just standing there, half-embracing and watching their father and his boyfriend. Felix shoulders him away. “Get off, you lug.”

Unfortunately, Glenn goes to Sylvain and gives him a clap on the shoulder loud enough that Felix can _feel_ it. Sylvain, to his credit, keeps his smile up, but meets Felix’s eyes with veiled fear. Felix smiles ruthlessly back.

“You skip town, don’t invite us, and come back dating Felix, huh, kid?” Glenn’s eyes glint dangerously as he speaks.

“It’s been quite the year!” Sylvain chirps.

“Been a couple,” Glenn corrects. He pulls Sylvain down into a hug and claps his back again. “Welcome home!” He pulls back and smiles again. “So I hear you’re on the couch?”

“That’s enough,” Felix hisses, stepping in between them. “Our table’s ready.” As if to further end the interrogation, Felix takes Sylvain’s wrist in his hand. He means it to be something casual, like what months-long boyfriends would do. Instead it looks as natural as Felix feels, which is to say, it seems like Felix is about to assess Sylvain for a wound or kiss the back of his hand and ask him to dance. It is the opposite of natural.

Glenn gives them both a confused look. Felix drops Sylvain’s hand. “Whatever, I’m just going… to go,” he grumbles. He walks away from them both, but unfortunately his father and Dimitri are there in step.

“Hello, Felix,” Dimitri tries. “How have you been?”

“Fine.”

“That’s excellent news. And how is—” 

“Don’t bother with the pleasantries,” Felix snaps. “Honestly. Things are fine. Go talk to Sylvain or something.”

“Felix,” his father chides.

“Yes, hello, Rodrigue,” Felix mutters.

Dimitri takes the hint and turns back to catch up with Sylvain. Felix never really understood their dynamic, but Sylvain sounds happy to see him, at least. 

“I’d like for this visit to be fun,” Rodrigue continues. “It’s the first time we’ve all been together, with Sylvain and Ingrid, in some time.”

“I know that, you already mentioned it.” Felix huffs. It shouldn’t be such a big deal— the holidays were never anything their family really cared about. Not in some time, anyway. Adding Sylvain back to the equation shouldn’t make such a difference.

“I’m asking you to be polite, at least, Felix.” His father shifts to his heavy tone, the one he uses when he thinks a real opportunity for parenting has fallen upon his lap. “Not for me, mind you. But for them.”

 _For Dimitri and Glenn._ Felix’s mouth twists downward in spite as it registers. His father’s chasing after this for a sense of normalcy for them again, of course. It’s the first holiday season since the accident; maybe he’s hoping it could “do them some good” or some other benign sentiment. Whatever it is, this was never actually about visiting _him,_ and that’s all Felix needs to take away from this conversation.

“We’ll see,” Felix says.

As they sit, Sylvain naturally settling next to Felix ( _we’re dating,_ Felix reminds himself), Rodrigue forces their poor waiter to walk them through all their tea options, leaving the rest of them to stare at the menu's pages of options. Sylvain looks visibly distraught, as if the choice wasn't just between what to eat, so he snatches Sylvain's menu away and stacks it with the rest.

"I'll order," he says matter-of-fact. Felix knows his and Ingrid's orders here by heart, he can't imagine Glenn's has changed (he hasn't otherwise in the past decade), and it's not like Dimitri would tell the difference anyway. That left his father, who, frankly, Felix would love to doom to a shitty meal as it is.

"Wow, taking charge. I like that," Sylvain says and taps his shoulder against Felix’s. Felix manages to keep his grimace to minimum, he thinks.

"I just don't want to wait thirty minutes because you have no idea what the words mean."

Ingrid hides her mouth behind a hand when she snorts, but Glenn makes no attempt at subtlety when he bursts into laughter. Though there's hardly a need— the entire restaurant is boisterous, to say the least, with everyone yelling and laughing over the buzzes and pops from food on grills.

"That's not true!" Sylvain pouts. "I definitely recognize _some_ of these words. I learned something from the years of KBBQ back home."

"And nothing from Korea?" Glenn asks amicably. "I wonder if this will even compare."

"No, I hardly had time for food while I was there," Sylvain says with a sigh. "It was just a really long layover, really. I never got to properly visit, but I definitely want to."

Glenn looks to Felix with no amount of subtlety. "Maybe for the honeymoon?"

"I'll drive this chopstick into your skull," Felix deadpans. In a classic response to sibling threats of bodily harm, Glenn just smiles back at him. "I'll use _both_ of them."

"Okay, we'll have two pots of your house blend, then, thank you," Rodrigue finally orders. The waiter, an already exhausted looking young man, writes something down and looks to the rest of them in pain. Felix can relate. He orders for the table (as well as individual orders of meat for himself, Ingrid, and Glenn, because he's no fool) and insists that they'll cook it so they can let the poor man leave.

"So, Ingrid, Sylvain, son," Rodrigue starts, folding his hands in his lap, "How was your Thanksgiving?"

Ingrid abruptly stands, knocking the table and making the side dishes spread across the table clatter. "So sorry, I've just realized I left something in the car." Within moments, she's gone, and Felix turns to his dad with an eyebrow raised. His father frowns.

"Did I misspeak?"

"Dad, when have her parents literally ever not sucked?" Glenn asks.

"That's what I said!" Felix says, looking at Sylvain triumphantly.

"Boys, now don't be rude." He and Glenn roll their eyes, and he can tell from the way his father's frown furthers that they're moments away from another useless scolding.

"It was fine, sir," Sylvain says. "Ingrid roasted a turkey, there was wine, and Felix didn't even insult anyone. Not outright, anyway."

Miraculously, Rodrigue deflates at that. "Sylvain, there's no need to call me sir."

He says it with a familiarity, like he's said that countless times, but Sylvain was never so polite to his father growing up. He wonders, again, just how often they still keep in touch. It's baffling to Felix why Sylvain wouldn't cut them off like he did the rest of family connections.

Sylvain shakes his head and settles back in his seat. "Oh, please, of course I do. It's only proper now that I'm, you know," he pauses and glances to Felix, "Dating your son, and all."

"Congratulations again, to the both of you," Dimitri says. Felix wants to sneer or cross his arms, but he forces himself to sit still and avoid the way his father and brother are staring at him.

"Thank you!" Sylvain responds. Felix purses his lips.

"Yeah," he mutters.

Ingrid comes back then, nothing new in her hands, and Felix can't recall her ever appearing at a better time than before.

"So Ing, when did these two even get together?" Glenn asks.

_Never mind._

Ingrid pauses, her hand caught hanging as she reaches for the cup of tea Rodrigue had just poured. "Um."

"A few months ago," Felix blurts.

Sylvain’s leg starts bouncing under the table. "Would you like to look at some photos of Felix looking miserable ever since?"

Glenn nearly claws the phone out from Sylvain's hand as soon as he says it, and leans halfway across the table to show Dimitri as he starts swiping through. Felix lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Really?" He asks under his breath.

"At least it worked," Sylvain says back.

Their waiter reappears with a cart loaded with an impressive amount of plates stacked with raw meat, and he carefully begins to arrange them on the table with familiar ease, even with Glenn's body still contorted across it as he shows off the photos. Felix exhales, exasperated, and reaches around him to gather the orders he placed for himself and Sylvain.

"I'll cook for now. What do you—” he stops himself when a glance at Sylvain shows that he's clearly not listening. Instead, he's twisting his hands under the table and keeps glancing back at Glenn, whose face is full of sheer delight, especially whenever their father sighs over whatever rude gesture Felix is making in a given photo. Sylvain's leg is still bouncing. Felix hits him with the side of his boot.

"Are you nervous?" Felix asks, careful to keep his voice down. Sylvain bites his lip.

"Maybe? I don't really know. Like I said, I haven't really done this."

"Well, it’s the same as any other time. Just don't be weird," he says helpfully. Sylvain gives him a look.

"Wow, thanks."

Cello music starts from Sylvain’s phone, making Sylvain jump and slam his knee against the table.

"Huh," Glenn says, suddenly sounding too kind for his usual demeanor. "I can't believe he sent you a recording."

Dimitri and Sylvain both scramble for the phone. "No, uh, that's separate!" Sylvain squawks.

It clicks in Felix's mind. He pries it from the mess of hands and stares, stunned, at a video of himself playing the cello. It's from when he was still back at his family's home. He's playing too stiff and barely in tune, yet his brother and father are still sitting nearby and watching with decidedly un-Fraldarius-like softness in their features.

Felix _knows_ this recording. He's playing Valse Sentimentale. This was what Sylvain was listening to on Thanksgiving night— he just had no fucking clue it was _his own playing._

"Why do you have this?" Felix asks slowly.

"I, well, I apologize, Felix, for doing so without telling you, but I sent it to him," Dimitri says. When Felix only stares, he continues: "He was asking how you were?"

"And so you recorded me secretly?"

"It's not his fault," Sylvain says, leaning forward to physically block Dimitri from Felix's line of sight. "I asked if I could hear you play."

"That makes it no better," Felix hisses. He might have considered KBBQ a neutral ground before, but Felix is going to smash both their heads into a plate of short ribs. "What the hell, Dimitri?"

"You know, _Sylvain,_ speaking of being in trouble,” Glenn starts, casual in such a way that lets Felix know his older brother is about to annihilate someone, “I have to ask: how did you get away with writing about Felix like that without him murdering you?”

To his left, Sylvain chokes on his tea and hastily covers his mouth with his napkin, and Dimitri uncomfortably shifts in his seat. Across the table, Ingrid bursts to life, careening around Rodrigue to look at Glenn. "I knew that character was inspired by Felix!" She says, narrowly avoiding slamming her elbow into his father's plate.

"Right? It has to be, the paragraphs about the hair—"

"What _paragraphs?"_ Felix hisses, his glare on Sylvain unwavering.

Sylvain, to his credit, is doing an incredible job at carefully observing every person and object in the restaurant except for Felix. He’s seemingly enraptured by the ceiling’s molding when he starts: "Well, okay, so the book's an amalgamation of lots of people's experiences, and that character isn't even real at that point in the story, it's just when Hector is hallucinating, so anything he resembles—"

"It's okay, kiddo, you don't have to lie, we're practically family!"

"Glenn, _what_."

“See!” Glenn says mid-laugh, waving his chopsticks at Felix. The movement sends a piece of kkakdugi flying through the air, and it lands on the floor feet away from them. Rodrigue winces, and Felix would laugh if he wasn’t seething with fury at the whirlwind of betrayal he's currently experiencing. “That's the murderous intent, how did you escape that?"

"I actually thought that sequence was beautifully written, Sylvain," Dimitri chimes in, surely thinking he’s helping. “And the prose afterwards when he comes down from the panic of realizing his latent feelings is truly—"

"Felix never read the book," Sylvain blurts. Felix’s stomach drops. The table's attention immediately snaps to Felix with a simultaneous chorus: 

Glenn, confused: "What?"

Dimitri, genuinely offended: "What?"

Rodrigue, exhausted: "What?"

Ingrid, oddly unreadable: "What?

"Felix Hugo, your boyfriend publishes his first book and it skyrockets to the top of the charts, and you've never made the time to read it?" Rodrigue asks, his forehead filled with extra lines. Everyone's silent, waiting for Felix to speak, and he desperately wonders why it's only now that people are finally content to stop talking.

"He wasn't my boyfriend at the time," he eventually supplies, crossing and uncrossing his arms. "I was… I was trying not to think about it. Then he came back into my life and I didn't see the point in reading it when he was right there."

Glenn coos, and Felix freezes when he realizes his implications. All he meant was Sylvain would literally never let him live it down if he saw him reading his book. He opens his mouth to say so, but then he sees Sylvain looking at him with something unguarded and unfamiliar, so he ends up coughing awkwardly and poking at the meat in front of him. He places a piece on the grill and a hot sizzle starts to life.

"Well, that's just about the sweetest reason I could imagine you'd have to be a shit boyfriend," Glenn remarks with a mockingly thoughtful expression. Felix very maturely balls up a piece of lettuce and throws it at him. “Don’t be so pissy!”

 _"Boys,"_ Rodrigue chides.

"But dad!" Glenn whines as Felix quickly says, "Glenn started it." Rodrigue lets out a long sigh.

"You'd be hard pressed to convince anyone my sons are men in their twenties," he complains to Sylvain, rolling his eyes. "We're going to have a civilized meal now, you two, please stop picking fights."

Felix opens his mouth to pick another fight, but before he can, Sylvain deflects and moves onto some joke. Whatever look was on his face before is now replaced by a wide smile as he says something probably charming and thought-provoking to Felix's dad, and just like that, the tension is immediately gone. He still feels the anger rolled up and hot in his gut, yet when Felix watches him as he speaks, watches how his eyes sparkle when Rodrigue and Dimitri laugh at his joke, how his freckles seem to slide across his cheeks as he talks… it feels less significant, somehow.

He can’t help but think of the dinners they’d use to have, when Glenn would pick on them and Sylvain would fling it right back, when his father would laugh instead of worry, when Dimitri didn’t treat him like _he_ was the fragile one. Even if Glenn is still a prick now and Dimitri is _Dimitri_ and they’re all pulling shit on him, seeing them gravitate to Sylvain makes Felix almost feel young again, like they’re just fighting after school and not a family on the brink of falling apart. Felix can't recall the last time they were all together and Felix wasn’t miserable, let alone actually feeling this close to normal.

Sylvain must feel him staring, because he glances over at Felix and winks without missing a beat in whatever he's saying, as if to say, _hey, sorry, but at least we made it._ Before he realizes what he's doing, Felix reaches under the table and takes Sylvain's hand in his, feeling his calloused hand scrape against Sylvain's soft palm. Sylvain doesn't react, still animatedly speaking, but rubs his thumb back and forth across the back of Felix's hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Felix is overwhelmed all at once by how _unremarkable_ it feels; not just him wanting to hold Sylvain's hand (something he refuses to interrogate further), but the act of having dinner with Sylvain, his family, and Ingrid and Dimitri, just sitting around as they bicker and laugh with nowhere to be. He's almost uncomfortable with how comfortable he is, here with Sylvain.

Feeling a heat creep up his neck, Felix tears his eyes from Sylvain and realizes Ingrid is still watching him with the same guarded expression from before. Felix narrows his eyes at her as if to ask _what,_ and she looks slowly to Sylvain and back at him. And then, he remembers:

He told Ingrid he read Sylvain's book. He told her _that_ was his reasoning behind everything.

Felix's brain kicks into overdrive as he tries to think of some way to save this, but then Glenn kicks his shin under the table.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"I had asked if you wanted to go see a movie after this or if you'd throw a fit about not practicing for a fifth hour today."

Felix scowled at his brother. "I do not throw fits—"

"Let's not get too hasty," Sylvain teases. Now Felix kicks his shin. He has the decency to act hurt in response and lets go of Felix’s hand to massage his leg. Felix does his best to ignore the feeling of empty space as he curls his hand into itself.

"Besides,” Felix continues, “I haven't practiced at all today. I'll get some in while you go." Felix ignores Sylvain and Glenn's simultaneous whine.

"It's Christmas Eve! We've got to see a movie. Tell him, Dad."

"Your brother is an adult," Rodrigue says patiently. "Now eat your meal, the both of you, you're going to burn it."

"Look, when you get back we can play cards or something," Felix mutters, bitterly removing the pork because it _was_ going to burn.

"Perhaps we could play euchre?" Dimitri asks, timid. Felix sighs.

"Sure. Euchre."

Sylvain and Glenn, seemingly placated by the promise of cards, launch back into an excited discussion of what movie to watch, and Felix glances back at Ingrid. She's apparently over catching Felix's lie, now joining in the movie selection, but if she and Felix make eye contact again, they both decide to ignore it for the rest of the meal.

When Rodrigue asks for the check, the exhausted waiter says, "She already paid, sir," and hands her back her card. Felix's father gawks at a preening Ingrid.

"Ingrid, when did you do that?"

"On my way to the car," she says with no shortage of pride. "And no, you cannot pay me back. Consider this the first of many thank you's for all the Fraldariuses have done for me."

Glenn wraps an arm around Ingrid and ruffles her hair, despite her immediate sputtering. "What a grown-up you are! Such an accomplished little project manager, treating us!"

Rodrigue still tries to pay for the meal up until they're back at the cars parked outside. Felix holds his hand out expectantly.

"Stop it, Father, she clearly bested you. Keys?"

Rodrigue shakes his head and reaches to his pockets, but Ingrid steps to Felix's side and places a hand on his shoulder. "Actually, I'm feeling too tired from the food for a movie. Felix and I can take my car back and we'll see you there later."

Everyone save for Felix accepts it with ease; only Felix stills completely.

"We'll see you soon," Dimitri says, giving them a small wave and getting into the van. Sylvain steps over and gives Felix a pat on the side, and then turns for the van, where Glenn is making fake retching noises.

"Just kiss him, you're making it weirder by not," he taunts.

"Just leave!" Felix snaps, mortified. Sylvain looks at him apologetically and Felix whips around to throw open Ingrid's passenger door.

She gets in behind the steering wheel, and the moment the car is turned on, Felix is switching on the radio and turning the volume too high.

It's when Ingrid lets him and starts the drive home without saying anything that Felix realizes she must be furious. But if she isn’t going to bring it up, neither will he.

* * *

They're nearly back to the apartment and Felix can't stop tapping his fingers against his arm. Anticipation and dread have been building steadily the whole drive, and now he feels like he might combust. But if he can get to his room, they’ll avoid it for the night.

Abruptly, Ingrid leans over and turns the music down, as if she could sense his hope. She breathes in slowly and he braces himself. "What the hell, Felix? You didn't read his book?"

Felix scoffs. "That's what you care about? The damn book?"

"No, I care that you lied to me about it," Ingrid snaps. "I felt terrible because I thought I was putting you through hell and you just lied and let me believe that for _weeks."_

"Trust me, you've still put me through hell," Felix spits. "Thanks for that."

She brakes harshly at a red light, and the two of them slide forward against their seat belts. "Then I reiterate: what the hell?"

"You were the one who knowingly invited him to stay and only told me after the fact!"

She laughs: a harsh, sardonic sound. "Knowingly? Felix, I don't know shit because you're not telling me!"

"Well, neither are you!" He retorts. "Why were you convinced his stupid book ruined my life?"

The light turns green, and Ingrid slowly accelerates up to the speed limit. "I'll explain, but then you owe me the truth," she says, measured.

Felix crosses his arms. "... Fine."

"There is a character in Sylvain's book that is just like you."

"Yeah, I gathered that—"

"Felix, if you interrupt me again, so help me God," Ingrid warns. Her hands are tight on the steering wheel. Felix rolls his eyes, but reluctantly shuts up.

"The protagonist falls in love with this 'you' character," Ingrid continues. "But then you disappear. And it haunts him. Literally, even. He sees you everywhere, but you're never actually there. He stops being able to tell who’s actually real, because he’s so worried they’re all like you.

"It doesn't end very well for him. By the end of the book, he falls apart. There’s a reason they keep calling it this next great American tragedy."

Ingrid exhales with finality and merges into another lane of traffic; they're nearing their road, a fact Felix is barely able to register because of how hard he is reeling. That story doesn't make any sense. _Felix_ wasn't the one who left. Sylvain had the luxury of living in a world not irreparably colored by someone who left him behind. Where the hell did he get off writing like he was chasing ghosts?

Ingrid glances at him, and he realizes she's expecting an explanation. "Okay," he says instead, not capable of much else.

She clicks her tongue against her teeth in annoyance. "So, from my perspective, it seemed like you hated him because he wrote a book about how much you hurt him and then got famous for it."

Felix could laugh. "Well, you couldn't be further from the truth," he says bitterly.

"Then please, do enlighten me," she shoots back. "Or do you not hate him at all? Were you just pissy with me for doing something without your permission and so you chose to fuck with me for weeks?"

"No, I hated him!" Felix hisses, and now that he's admitted it, the words come pouring out before he can register them. "I hated him because that bastard knew there was no one else I trusted and loved more than him, and then he showed up, used me for a shitty hook up, and then caught a plane halfway across the goddamn globe the morning after, without a single fucking warning or explanation."

He sucks in a breath, his heart racing, and Ingrid stares at him with her mouth wide open. Felix presses his eyes shut tight. He didn’t realize that was sitting in him still.

 _Fuck,_ Felix thinks. _I really loved him._

"I didn't know that happened," Ingrid says slowly.

"Yeah, no shit," he mutters. "No one knows. It's the most mortifying thing I've ever done. Why would I tell anyone I got played into being another of his shitty little flings?"

"I doubt that’s what he thinks—"

"And what would you know, Ingrid?" He snaps, turning to glare at her profile. "You thought Sylvain was heartbroken over me until five minutes ago."

Ingrid grits her teeth, her jaw flexing with the action. She pulls into the lot of their apartment building and carefully, deliberately parks the car. "I know a lot more than you give me credit for, Felix Fraldarius."

His laugh is cruel, even to his ears. "Right, how could I forget just how better you know Sylvain than I do? I had nearly forgotten how close you two are since you haven't reminded me for the tenth time this hour."

"Really? You're going to make this about my friendship with him?"

He's had enough of this pointless conversation. Felix scrambles out of the car and slams the door shut. Ingrid slams her door shut harder.

"Come find me when you're ready to actually talk like an adult," she says, cold.

She turns away from him, leaving him standing in the middle of the parking lot, shivering and infuriated. And yet, even as Felix assures himself that he's the victor here, he can’t help but feel anything but a dirty, embarrassed shame in place of his pride.

* * *

Playing doesn’t help, not that Felix was under any pretenses that it would. By the time Glenn and Sylvain’s boisterous arrival shatters any illusion of focus that Felix had, he’s pissed, touchy, and not in the mood for anything, especially not Glenn banging on his door.

“Practice time is over, Fe-fe, come on out! Pops isn't here!"

When Felix opens his door, Dimitri, Glenn, and Sylvain are standing there like the goddamn Scooby Gang. It is absurd to him that these were once the three most important men in his life.

Glenn nudges Dimitri in the side. “Euchre?” Dimitri asks timidly.

“Are you really so one-minded?” Felix asks, gripping the doorknob tightly. Glenn holds up plastic bags and waves them in Felix’s face, and the glass bottles inside clink.

 _“Drinking game_ euchre! I can’t believe you and Ingrid don’t have any alcohol, it’s a miracle Sylvain brought it up. Do you not have any fun anymore?”

Felix glares at Sylvain, who shrugs. “We just don’t drink much.”

Glenn throws an arm around him and manages to pull him out of his room, even when Felix digs his heels into the floor. “Well you will tonight!”

He drags him into the living room, where Ingrid is sitting stiffly in the armchair and pointedly staring at the television, which is turned off. Felix looks at the floor.

Glenn finally releases him and goes to place the copious amounts of beer and liquor on the coffee table. “You’re both so quiet, what gives?”

“Shut up, Glenn,” he and Ingrid snap in sync. The bitterness in both of their voices makes the room still, and, in a surge of spite, Felix stomps forward and thrusts the first bottle he can grab at Glenn before angrily sitting down. “Just pour shots and let’s get this stupid game going,” he hisses.

Glenn cocks an intrigued eyebrow but pours the shots all the same. As he does, Sylvain joins him on the sofa and bumps his arm against Felix’s.

“Practice was rough?” He asks quietly, leaning down to speak near Felix’s ear. Felix turns away on instinct and shoves him away.

"You and I _aren’t cool,"_ Felix carefully enunciates. He remembers what Ingrid said about Sylvain's book and feels righteous all over again.

"I didn't think it'd upset you so much," Sylvain admits. For a second, Felix thinks Ingrid told him everything and panic rushes through his bloodstream, but then Sylvain's waving his phone and he remembers the recording.

Unfortunately for Sylvain, he's angry about that, too.

"We'll talk later," Felix grits out, keeping his voice low. "After this dumb game, and after I actually practice."

"Mm," Sylvain hums. “Maybe this will be a good break?”

Felix’s eyes flit towards the shot glasses Glenn is filling to the brim. “I’m not sure this is exactly a ‘healthy break’,” he says, mimicking Sylvain’s voice from his attempts to coax Felix into resting over the past few weeks.

“No, but it’ll loosen you up,” he laughs. Sylvain grabs two shots and passes one to Felix. “Or just kill you, maybe— Glenn, have you never had a normal shot before?”

Glenn waves him off and presses glasses into Dimitri and Ingrid’s hands. “To the holidays!”

When they tap their glasses together, Ingrid makes eye contact with him, and Felix glares on instinct. He holds her stare and knocks the shot back, schooling his face into something neutral through the burn. Ingrid glares in turn and downs her shot. She coughs, once, and, when Felix grins, slams the glass down on the coffee table.

“Another please, Glenn?”

Felix places his glass down next to hers. “Me as well.”

Sylvain laughs nervously. “So that’s how this night’s going? I don’t have the liver of a twenty year old anymore.”

“You can sit out if you’re that worried,” Felix says. Sylvain makes an exasperated noise but places his glass down as well.

Glenn appraises Felix. “When did you become such an enabler? I’m so proud.”

Felix rolls his eyes. He’s never cared much for alcohol one way or the other, but if Ingrid’s going to be petty and make a big deal out of _shots,_ too, then Felix isn’t about to back down.

They do another round, Dimitri politely declining, and Glenn taps the deck of cards on the table. “Alright, it’s time! Who’s sitting out the first game?”

“Me, I don’t remember this game for shit,” Sylvain says, waving his foot around. “I’ll look at Felix’s hand and pretend like I know what’s happening.”

“I’m sure you’ll catch on quick, Sylvain,” Dimitri says softly as he takes the deck and starts to shuffle.

“Aw, thanks, man.” Sylvain leans over and ruffles his hair, and Dimitri beams. Felix huffs and leans against the sofa, fighting the sudden urge to cross his arms.

“Let’s just get this over with, then,” Felix mutters.

Dimitri deals them in, and the teams easily form as “the Blonds versus the Brothers.” Glenn seems to be making up the drinking rules as they go along, but by the end of the first game, Felix is already realizing he may be in over his head.

“You won, yet you’re still red as a tomato,” Sylvain teases, poking Felix’s cheek. He swats him away and attempts to surreptitiously hide his face. Glenn’s faring no better across the way from him— the both of them have always started to glow at the smallest drop of alcohol, which led to many obvious and awkward nights when Rodrigue would catch sight of Glenn sneaking into the house late. At least Felix had the common sense to wait until college to start drinking.

Sylvain starts playing music as they deal again, and slowly Felix loses track of time between tricks of euchre and sips of the increasingly absurd drinks Glenn and Sylvain concoct for them. Sylvain tries playing “Red Solo Cup” and is immediately bullied into skipping it by everyone save for Dimitri, who probably likes it for its musical merit or something equally ridiculous. Aside from that, the music is decent, and his back isn’t feeling as terribly tense as it usually is. Things could be… worse.

After their second or third game, Dimitri steps away to take a call, and Felix ends up on a team with Sylvain. They lose terribly with Glenn and Ingrid scoring every single point. Ingrid whoops and Glenn nearly tackles her across the table in a hug. “That’s my girl!”

Felix punches Sylvain’s arm. “That was absolute shit. It’s like you were trying to lose.”

“I literally told you I didn’t know what I was doing,” Sylvain points out, smiling wide at him. Felix narrows his eyes.

“You’re lying. You’d always say that and then sweep the next game.”

Sylvain leans in with a conspiratorial grin. “Yeah, so do you think I’ve convinced them again?”

Felix looks to Glenn and Ingrid, who are now lying on the floor, arms loosely wrapped each other as they half-whisper and giggle like children. “They’re too busy being disgusting,” he says, raising his voice for them to hear. Ingrid turns and sticks her tongue out at him.

“Ingrid,” Glenn says abruptly, gravely serious. “Listen. I think we can still make this work.”

Ingrid sighs. “Glenn, I’m a lesbian.”

“A lesbian I’ve loved since she proposed to me at age four,” he responds. “It was so cute. How do you expect me to get over you after that?”

Ingrid giggles again, much too loud for how funny Glenn actually is, and like an act of drunken, divine intervention, it shines in Felix’s head that they’re intoxicated. He could count on one hand the amount of times he’s ever heard Ingrid talk so directly about her sexuality. They’re definitely not sober.

“You know, Felix proposed to me around then, too,” Sylvain says. Felix turns back to him, mouth open.

“I did not.”

“You definitely did,” he says around a shit-eating grin. “You were, in particular, very enthusiastic about the ‘til death do us part section of it all.”

“And look at you now!” Glenn says, still laying on the floor as he motions in their direction. “So in love, it’s adorable.”

“We’re _not—”_ Felix cuts himself off. Glenn squints at him, inebriation making his expression overexaggerated to the point of being comical, but Felix knows he’s nearly said the wrong thing.

Sylvain grabs Felix’s hand and pulls them both up off the floor. “Hey, let’s dance,” he says, and tugs Felix further until they’re almost out of eyesight. He wraps his arms loosely around Felix’s neck and steps entirely too close for comfort. “We were doing so well,” Sylvain laments quietly.

“What are you doing?” Felix whispers sharply, but when he tries to move away, Sylvain stiffens and boxes Felix between his arms.

“Glenn’s watching,” Sylvain points out. “Come on. Just one dance will do the trick.”

He tilts his head as he grins, and in their proximity Felix is hit with a wave of Sylvain’s cologne mingled with rum. It’s entirely too strong, but it isn’t exactly unpleasant.

Felix should probably put distance between them.

“One dance,” he agrees.

Felix reluctantly places his hands on Sylvain’s hips. Sylvain quickly changes the song on his phone to a slow ballad Felix doesn’t recognize and settles back with his arms around Felix’s shoulders.

“Chris Stapleton?” Sylvain says easily, as if his entire body isn’t suddenly feeling awkward and too long like Felix’s is. Felix shakes his head, and Sylvain continues: “Ah, this one’s a classic. Didn’t know it until Vandy, though, can’t blame you.”

Felix wants to make some snide remark, but all he can manage is a frown. Sylvain starts guiding them in gentle circles, doing nothing more than swaying in place, yet Felix feels dizzy, his breathing too quick.

He focuses on Sylvain’s humming over the smooth twang of the song’s melody. It isn’t particularly Felix’s favorite genre, but he’d be an idiot to say his voice wasn’t impressive. The singer’s— not Sylvain’s.

Sylvain shifts, leaning down as he starts singing along with the main chorus, and his attempts at matching the song’s vocal runs are pitiful at best. Felix smirks. “Not even close, there.”

“That’s not fair, no one else can hit those.”

“Should have picked a better song, then.”

“The next one’s good, too. I think I can nail it.”

Felix is aware they’re getting closer: he can feel Sylvain’s body heat through his shirt, can feel their legs brushing as they step. “We said one dance,” Felix reminds him.

“We did,” Sylvain agrees. He takes Felix’s hands and places one on his shoulder before settling his free arm around Felix’s hip, bringing them closer so that their chests are barely touching.

They keep swaying. Felix has to look away from Sylvain’s eyes: they’re so inviting, so familiar, so at ease. Felix forgets where he is, and he isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol in his blood or the sudden need to close the little distance that’s left between them that makes his heart pump wild and erratic.

“What are we even doing?” Felix asks.

Sylvain leans closer. “We’re dancing.”

Felix tries to glare when he looks again. Instead, he feels himself leaning in too. Maybe he can have this, just this one moment, and it won’t be too much. He’d like that; he’d like _this,_ he’s pretty sure.

He feels Sylvain’s breath across his lips. Sylvain’s letting him, and Felix thinks maybe Sylvain would like this, too.

“You two are quite adorable,” Dimitri says over Felix’s shoulder.

He splits from Sylvain in an instant, turning away from them both out of sheer embarrassment. His entire face is beet red, surely, and not from the drinks he’s had.

He hears Sylvain sigh behind him. "Read the room, dude,” he says.

“Ah… I apologize?”

Felix does his best to steady himself with a deep breath. “It’s to be expected,” he cuts, relying on his edge to salvage this situation. “He’s never had a relationship before, how is this boar supposed to act like anything but a fool?”

Felix glances at Dimitri and sees his face suddenly flushed. “Well, actually, I’ve recently— I’ve started seeing someone, that's who just called. We met in group. His name is Dedue.”

Felix’s mouth drops open in surprise. In all their years growing up side by side, Felix never saw Dimitri show an interest in anyone. He thought that was one of the few things they had in common, truthfully. Now even Dimitri seems to be moving on to new things, new relationships, while Felix was a breath away from kissing the same person he’s been unknowingly charmed by for as long as he can remember— even longer, if Sylvain’s memory is to be trusted.

“That’s amazing,” Sylvain says earnestly, and Felix is reminded he needs to breathe. He turns away again. Ingrid and Glenn have made their way to the sofa, where she’s curled up asleep, head resting on Glenn’s arm, and Glenn seems not far behind her. Felix remembers why they were dancing in the first place, why Sylvain let him get so close. _They weren’t even watching._

“I’m going to bed,” he says abruptly.

He rushes to his room without waiting for a response. Closing the door behind him, he strips out of his clothes, his body feeling a degree away from overheating. _What the fuck,_ he thinks, repeating the phrase again and again as he turns off the light and crawls under his sheets. _What the fuck was I thinking._

He tries to assuage the nausea building in his stomach by reminding himself that it was Sylvain’s idea, Sylvain’s _fault,_ really, but it does little to put any part of him at ease.

The knock at the door makes Felix nearly fall out of his bed.

Sylvain cautiously opens the door and pokes his head into the room. “Hey?”

Felix turns so his back is to Sylvain. “What?”

He hears the door click close. “Well, I’m sleeping in here? Remember?”

He did not. “... Right.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” Sylvain offers. Guilt and dread wash over Felix.

“Don’t be stupid,” he mumbles.

“What?”

Felix whips around and glares at where he can vaguely make out Sylvain’s shape. “It’s just a bed. There’s space.”

Sylvain slowly walks over. Watching him is making Felix’s heart hammer in his chest, so he turns away once more and tries to make his body look relaxed as he feels the mattress dip when Sylvain sits down.

“Are you sure?”

“Stop being so, so,” Felix stutters, “Just shut up. Stay on that side.”

Sylvain huffs once in laughter, and the mattress creaks as he lies down, and then creaks more as Sylvain shifts, and then adjusts, and then turns. Felix can’t focus on anything besides the noises of Sylvain moving and trying to get comfortable, and Felix feels his pulse thrumming in his hands.

His brain provides the memory of Sylvain’s breath on his mouth, and Felix snaps. He rolls back around, blindly grabs at Sylvain’s jaw, and presses their lips together.

He half-misses, but his aim is good enough to feel how soft Sylvain’s mouth is, softer than he remembers. He recalls liking the kissing parts the most, and cautiously moves his lips against Sylvain’s. Then he remembers himself, and pulls back quickly so he is hovering just above Sylvain’s face.

Sylvain is very still. He clears his throat from under Felix. “You’re drunk?” He asks, sounding unsure.

Felix’s pulse is in his ears. “No,” he manages.

Sylvain breathes in slowly. “Oh.”

This is not how people who want to be kissed react to being kissed, Felix knows that much. Whatever signs he thought Sylvain was giving before were just part of the show for his brother. In forgetting that, Felix has somehow fucked this up even more.

“Now,” he starts, sputtering like a child, “It won’t be weird. I mean, being closer to each other, tomorrow. Because Glenn could tell it was weird today.”

“Oh,” Sylvain says again. Felix realizes he’s still on top of him and nearly throws himself back to his side of the bed.

“So now it will be fine. And we don’t have to talk about this again, ever,” he says, because now he can’t seem to stop talking.

“Right.”

Felix wishes Sylvain would do anything other than agree with him, for once. "And I'm still mad at you."

"Okay."

Felix buries his face into his pillow. Now Sylvain’s surely seen his whole hand, and Felix has made a fool of himself. If his bed could somehow fall open into a black hole, that would be superb.

Eventually, he hears Sylvain shift to his side. “Good night, then, I guess,” he says, stunted and awkward. Felix nods, as if Sylvain could see him. He doesn't fall asleep for a long time. Agonizingly, he doesn't think Sylvain does, either.

Great. This is great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading and leaving comments and kudos! They make my week.
> 
> Next week _hello my old heart_ will be on a break! Chapter 6 will be up the weekend after. In the mean time you can find [Lorelei](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei) and [myself](https://twitter.com/sunsetdawnOnTwi) on Twitter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Some heads up: the very beginning of this chapter briefly describes nausea Felix experiences. Also, the rating for this fic has gone up! If you prefer to ignore sexual content, the end notes include the lines just before and after the scene so you can skip it. I also want to note that Felix has a complicated relationship with sex, and as such has some complicated feelings and reactions to it. Do what you need to read safely!
> 
> As always, the art in this chapter is done by the talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, rest-of-the-Gaga-quote [Lorelei](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei). Enjoy!

Felix wakes with a splitting headache, a stomach full of lead, and a full-bodied regret for ever letting Glenn mix him a drink.

The streaks of early morning light cutting through the window blinds are aggressive and sharp against his eyelids. Felix presses his eyes shut tighter to ignore it, but now he’s awake enough to feel the numbness in his toes and a chill pass through his chest. On instinct, he rolls away from the window and reaches out to tug his sheets closer, which is his first mistake of the morning. His entire digestive system somersaults, and Felix realizes with pressing urgency he needs a bathroom, or at least a glass of water.

He warily opens his eyes and finds himself face to face with one Sylvain Gautier, whom he kissed last night. Felix, being a man of principle, closes his eyes once more so he can focus on not throwing up on someone in his own bed.

When it passes, he cautiously looks again. Sylvain’s pressing half his face into Felix’s mattress, the pillow well-ignored, and is, quite disgustingly, drooling onto his bedsheets. He managed to steal all of the covers over the course of the night, leaving Felix with just the corner of a sheet, and is now thoroughly bundled like a man preparing for a metamorphosis. It is decidedly unattractive, and Felix’s heart is beating wildly in his chest.

_I’ll keep my distance,_ he had thought. _Right._ Instead he’s fallen in love for a second time with someone who’s never wanted him, not in a way that meant anything, not in a way that would make Felix worth not leaving.

_I’m too hungover to be this pitiful,_ he thinks, and overpowers the resulting nausea and sluggishness that wash over him when he sits up. With all the precision he can force into limbs still dragged down by alcohol’s memory, Felix stands on the mattress and carefully steps over Sylvain’s sleeping body to maneuver his way off the bed.

Unfortunately the bathroom is occupied, so Felix makes his way where Glenn and Ingrid have mercifully made a pot of coffee already. “Thank God,” Felix says around the scratch in his throat.

Glenn groans and waves a hand. “Oh my _god,_ not so loud, _please.”_

Felix, who wasn’t yelling, still understands, as Glenn’s own voice sends another ache in between his ears. He pours a cup of coffee and, blissfully, they all drink in silence. The minutes pass as they slowly acclimate to the day beginning.

The coffee helps, but Felix still feels like he was dropped into the middle of a day that wasn’t supposed to happen. Dimitri comes out from the bathroom, looking like a stiff breeze might knock him over, and wordlessly accepts a mug from Glenn. Standing next to his brother and Ingrid, the three of them look as displaced as Felix feels. Ingrid’s hair is down in waves, and she’s leaning against the counter, not opening her eyes once this entire time. Felix can’t tell if she’s still ignoring him or struggling to remain conscious. Glenn, while much more alive-presenting, is still wearing his sweater from yesterday, and he’s paler than Felix has seen him in months.

“You look like shit,” Felix says amicably. Glenn frowns, clearly grouchy, and gestures at Felix with his coffee mug.

“You look worse.” Felix glances down and realizes he put his sweatpants on backwards last night. Glenn’s grinning dangerously when he looks back up. “Didn’t get much sleep, huh?”

“Shut up,” Felix snaps. Glenn’s grin widens, looking past him, because it is at that moment that Sylvain enters the room, shirtless and with his flannel pants hanging low. They make eye contact for the briefest of moments, but it’s enough for Felix’s chest to feel searing hot under his clothes. He hadn’t realized Sylvain slept _shirtless,_ which only makes the entire debacle that much more mortifying in his mind. Glenn laughs, and then groans and clutches his head.

“God, this sucks, I want to enjoy this,” he whines.

“Enjoy what?” Sylvain asks. His voice is rough and it makes Felix’s hair stand on end.

“You’re both blushing,” Ingrid says, short, and Felix is actually surprised to hear her speak. She narrows her eyes at Sylvain. “Like, a lot.”

Felix doesn’t need to check to confirm that Sylvain’s embarrassed to see him; he wasn’t hoping for much better. Glenn taps his leg with his foot, and Felix can see some of his scars poking out from his socks. “Merry Christmas, huh?” His brother remarks.

Felix’s ringtone screeches to life and everyone simultaneously flinches. He scrambles to shut it up.

“What.”

“Merry Christmas, Felix!” His father says cheerily. “I’m outside, can you let me in?”

When Felix does, he finds an absurd amount of gifts precariously balanced in his father’s arms. “I’ve got Glenn and Dimitri’s, too,” he explains sheepishly. Felix rolls his eyes and takes half of them the rest of the way inside.

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” Rodrigue loudly announces as he steps inside. Everyone weakly mutters responses. Rodrigue’s brow furrows, and he takes in the motley crew standing huddled around the coffee machine. “Glenn, you didn’t come back to the hotel so I brought you some clothes, did something happen?”

From the kitchen, Glenn pales further. “No, nothing happened.”

Rodrigue pauses a moment and glances between his sons. Felix realizes he still hasn’t fixed his pants. Something clicks on his father’s face.

“Are you all hungover? On Christmas?”

“Mr. Fraldarius, I am so, so sorry,” Ingrid says guiltily. Rodrigue just sighs.

“Have you at least eaten?”

When they collectively ignore his question, Sylvain clears his throat. “I’ll make pancakes?”

“Thank you, Sylvain.”

* * *

As everyone slowly gets dressed and starts moving like they’re humans, Felix settles into the sofa with another cup of coffee and does his best to ignore the sounds of Sylvain humming along to the holiday music his father’s set the television to play. There’s a large pile of all of their presents underneath the cheap, plastic tree he and Ingrid bought for the coffee table, with Felix’s haphazardly wrapped ones intentionally hidden near the bottom.

Ingrid and Rodrigue are still the only ones capable of conversation, with Dimitri having fallen back asleep in their armchair (“I’m just resting my eyes,” he insisted), and Felix tunes them out to gentle background noise. It’s certainly odd, seeing them all wrapped up in the context of Christmas once more. Sylvain had snuck his way into Christmas mornings with the Fraldariuses countless times. The Fraldarius family ever did much as the years went on, but that was probably why Sylvain preferred them; their understated mornings were easier to digest than the chaos that was his family finishing prepping for their Christmas party. By noon, Ingrid and Dimitri would come over, sometimes with their families, and they’d all spend the day showing off their newest games and gadgets until making the trip to the Gautiers’.

Bitterly, he thinks it’s cruel to be accidentally recreating that, knowing it won’t happen again.

Glenn, who had bullied Felix into submitting to having half of his brother’s weight pressed against him on the sofa, abruptly sits up and jostles Felix out of his memories. “Oh, I love this one,” he says fondly. Felix elbows him, shoving him the rest of the way off.

“Linus and Lucy?” Felix asks. “Since when?”

“Mom loved this movie,” Glenn says too casually, as if their mother is someone he talks about all the time. “Anyway, Ingrid, I wish we had a piano here,” Glenn says, twisting to look at her, “You play it so much better than the soundtrack.”

She grins politely but shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I haven’t played in years.”

“You should!” Sylvain calls from the kitchen. “The best part of my parent’s shitty party was when you played!”

“It really was lovely,” Rodrigue says, nostalgic. Felix narrows his eyes at him; if his father starts to cry, Felix very well may abandon the apartment for the rest of the day.

“You’re all very kind,” Ingrid responds.

“Do you miss it at all?” Glenn asks. Ingrid uncharacteristically picks at her fingernail.

“There are just more important things now,” she says simply. She glances at Felix and he frowns on instinct, remembering they’re still fighting. She sighs and leaves for the kitchen. “Sylvain, I’m hungry and you’re too slow.”

Sylvain whines, but then their voices get too low for anyone else to hear, and it leaves Felix alone with his family and a sleeping Dimitri. Which _reminds_ him.

Felix punches Glenn in the arm. Glenn yelps and kicks at Felix as he rubs the injury. “What was that for?”

“You were an ass to Sylvain at dinner,” he hisses.

“Yeah, well you were being a prick to Dimitri,” Glenn hisses back.

Felix rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t being a prick, he sent a recording of me to Sylvain.”

“Who cares! You’re acting like he did something terrible.”

Dimitri, who is very much so no longer asleep, clears his throat, stopping Felix short. “Thank you, Glenn, but it was inconsiderate of me,” he concedes softly. Felix sneers at him.

“Really? You’re not even going to try and defend yourself?”

Glenn makes a loud and exasperated noise and shoves at Felix, but he holds his ground and keeps his glare on Dimitri. The man in question stares at Felix in confusion. “Are you… do you _want_ me to say you were being rude, Felix?”

“Felix, Glenn, please, can it at least wait until the afternoon? Until breakfast?” Rodrigue asks, exhausted.

“Just give us a moment,” Felix snaps, and he stands and tilts his head back towards his room. “Dimitri?” Without waiting for a response, Felix storms off. Dimitri awkwardly hovers in his door frame moments later.

“Well, come in,” Felix mutters. Dimitri steps inside. “Were you ever going to tell me you sent that video to him? Who else did you share it with?”

“No one else,” Dimitri says quickly. Felix huffs, frustrated, and walks further into the room. He kicks Sylvain’s bag as he walks past it. “Would you like to hear my reasoning, or would that not make much of a difference?”

“Go for it,” Felix says flatly.

“Well, admittedly, Sylvain had asked if I had any recordings of your concerts, but I had none, and at that point, you hadn’t really been playing much at all, if you recall.”

Felix does recall. He went nearly two months without touching his cello after he finished his terrible excuse of a recital.

“And then Glenn and my father pestered me for weeks to play, and when I finally relented, you thought it would be fine to record it,” Felix supplies, glaring over his shoulder. Dimitri nods like a scolded child.

“It’s just that…”

“It’s just what?”

Dimitri takes a careful breath. “When you played, it was the first time it felt like you were being yourself around us again. I recorded it to show you, really; I hadn’t thought about sending it to anyone until well after you finished.”

The frustration bubbling in Felix boils over at that. “That’s absurd,” he snaps, crossing the room so he’s directly in front of Dimitri’s guarded frame. His defeated posture just makes Felix angrier. “You filmed me because _I_ was the one who wasn’t acting normal? I was the _only_ one of us who has kept it together. The rest of my goddamn family was falling apart, and you were there acting as if every day you lived was some sort of miserable fucking _burden_ on us. I didn’t lose my way, it was you who did, more than any of the rest of us.”

Dimitri’s gaze on Felix doesn’t waver once, not even when Felix finishes and feels his fists shaking and his throat still sore from dehydration. Instead, Dimitri quietly asks: “Do you blame me for everything that has happened?”

“There you go again, making all of this about you,” Felix snaps.

“You do,” Dimitri says, resigned. “I understand.”

“You don’t understand anything,” Felix retorts. He wants Dimitri to rise to his own anger, to snap, to do _anything,_ but there’s nothing but understanding and that god forsaken _pity_ that Felix has come to hate so personally.

“Let’s enjoy the rest of this morning, then, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

He leaves the room. Felix doesn’t stop him, doesn’t say anything, because in the end, that’s what Felix wants: for Dimitri to leave.

* * *

Ingrid and Sylvain’s loud pancake fanfare is a welcome distraction from Felix’s re-entrance to the room: they’ve started an argument about the proper order of when to cut, butter, and add syrup to a stack of pancakes that involves careful demonstration of each technique. Inexplicably, everyone seems to have an opinion, but it means Felix gets to take a plate and return to his corner of the couch without incidence, so Felix doesn’t complain. Glenn still gives him an annoying, patronizing _look_ when he thrusts a present into his lap, but Dimitri’s ever-calm countenance is otherwise enough to get everyone to drop it.

Glenn passes Sylvain a small package when he sits on the opposite end of the couch. “This one’s from me,” he says, already turned back to find one for Ingrid. Sylvain delicately places it next to him, and for the first time that morning, looks at Felix. He grins sheepishly and pokes at the wrapping paper.

“Should I be afraid of this?” He jokes, speaking just so Felix can hear. Felix is aware Sylvain’s sitting as far away from him as possible, but maybe this is still a peace offering— a way of saying _we can just pretend it was actually for Glenn, sure._

Felix swallows a large bite of the pancakes. “Unfortunately, no. He’s insufferable about how great he is at giving gifts.” It is made worse by the fact that Felix is terrible at gift giving, but at least he’s never claimed otherwise.

Glenn declares it’s time to start unwrapping, and the living room’s quickly overtaken by shiny shreds of red and green. Felix, who hasn’t asked for anything since before he hit puberty, is fine with the gym membership his father gives him and the rosin sampler from Ingrid. “You said you were running low,” Ingrid explains when he opens the bundle.

“Yeah. Thanks.” The rosins are of nice quality. Neither of them smile when they speak.

Sylvain has souvenirs for everyone else, each neatly wrapped in butcher paper. His father is overjoyed at the wooden paperweight that’s carved into the shape of a cat Sylvain brought him from who knows where; Glenn’s even quietly impressed at the small, decorative knife he receives. They’re each specific enough that Felix knows Sylvain bought them with his family in mind, even though he couldn’t have anticipated seeing them again. The competitive streak in him rears his head, and Felix briefly wishes he could have a next time to one-up him at.

“This is yours,” Sylvain says quietly, holding a sleek, silver envelope.

"Here's yours," He mutters before grabbing a snowflake-patterned box from under the table. He had tried to wrap this one properly, but the underside was still a mess of folds.

Wordlessly, they exchange them. Felix grips the envelope tight, bending it slightly, and watches Sylvain unwrap the monochrome-bound book. He gasps, soft and delighted, and when he smiles at him, Felix wishes he could have a hundred next times to find whatever gift would keep Sylvain’s smile on him.

“Did you know I wanted this?”

_Obviously_ , he thinks. “I saw you looking at it,” he says, with much less sarcasm and much more hesitation. It's the truth— Sylvain had spent half of their brief bookstore date reading the first few pages of it— but admitting that he had noticed feels entirely too revealing.

"Thank you," Sylvain says, his smile still remaining. "Well, open yours, too."

The envelope opens with ease, and in it Felix first finds a simple note: _I know they're not the same, but I have it on good authority that this opera's rather good. Consider it my way of making sure you actually enjoy your trip. -S_

Behind the note are two tickets to a show at Lyric Opera. Felix stares at them.

Sylvain clears his throat, and Felix looks back to him. "I figured, y'know, when you win this gig, you're going to be living there. So maybe you can find some other parts of Chicago you'll like while you're there."

"When I win it," Felix repeats, small and incredulous.

"Well, yeah. I've heard you play, you're going to be the best audition they hear."

Glenn leans over the back of the couch and plucks the envelope out of Felix's hands. "Did he say audition?" He asks, nudging Felix with his elbow as he reads Sylvain’s gift. Felix snatches it back.

"Yes, I leave for it tomorrow morning, and before you say anything, I wanted to get it over with before telling anyone." Felix braces himself for another petty fight, but surprisingly, Glenn just nods.

"I was wondering why you wanted us gone so quickly. I knew it couldn't be because you've had enough of your favorite big brother." Glenn pinches his cheek for emphasis. Felix scowls.

"You're my only big brother," he deadpans.

"You didn't disagree," Glenn points out with a grin. Seemingly satisfied, he walks away to pass out the few remaining gifts. Felix smooths the tickets out and carefully bends the envelope shut once more.

"Thank you," he says quietly. 

"It's nothing," Sylvain says easily, but Felix watches him hide a grin behind his coffee mug and lets himself grin in turn.

* * *

Ingrid hauls a giant duffel bag out of her room and makes her rounds hugging everyone in the room goodbye not long after they get the wrapping debris under control.

"You're sure you can't stay?" Glenn sighs, slumping and pressing his body weight onto her. Ingrid patiently pats his back and adjusts her stance to keep him upright.

"My family would like to see me on Christmas, too," she says. "It was good to see you Glenn."

Glenn sighs again and presses an obnoxiously wet kiss to Ingrid's cheek before letting her go. "Fine, fine, break my heart."

Ingrid rolls her eyes and wipes at her face. Her lingering smile fades into neutrality when she finally turns to Felix. He subconsciously shifts his shoulders back to match her posture, and she gives him a stiff pat on the arm.

"Good luck with the audition."

"I don't need luck."

Ingrid hums once, not quite amused. "Alright then." She walks to the door. "See you all in the new year! Merry Christmas!"

When the door closes behind her, Glenn wraps an arm around Felix's shoulders. "So, any chances you'll play your pieces for us?"

Felix walks away. "No."

* * *

What feels like only minutes pass and Felix is being literally shaken awake by hands on his shoulders.

"Come on, Fe-fe, we're leaving!"

Felix waves Glenn's hands off of him and rubs at his eyes; it's gotten darker outside from when he was last awake. He hadn't intended to fall asleep in the middle of the movie marathon Dimitri and Sylvain insisted upon having, but it isn't his fault the soundtracks are so damn soothing.

He stands, his back cracking as he stretches from his posture, and realizes his family and Dimitri have already gathered their things by the door. Sylvain and his father are to the side, speaking softly, and it pains Felix to see pride in Rodrigue's eyes as they talk. He just woke up; he could do without the reminder that his father would approve of Sylvain as Felix's boyfriend. Not that his father's approval even means anything.

"You be good, yeah?" Glenn says, tapping him on the shoulder again. Felix stares, unamused.

"I'm not a child."

"Just don't give Ingrid more of a hassle." Glenn steps closer and lowers his voice when he says: "And don't get in your head. You'll kill it at this audition."

Rather than say any of the first three denials that comes to mind, Felix simply nods.

"I'm proud of you," Glenn adds, almost unsure if Felix wants to hear it. Which is fair enough; he doesn't.

"Don't be before I win anything," he says. Glenn drops the subject as their father steps over to give Felix a stiff hug. Felix reciprocates with a single pat on his back.

"Do try and call sometime. You know it doesn't have to just be me tracking you down," he says when he pulls back a second later.

"Yeah, yeah," Felix mutters. "When I remember."

Rodrigue frowns, just slightly. "We'll miss you."

He bites the inside of his mouth and looks away. "Don't be such a sap."

Rodrigue exhales half an exhausted laugh and steps back. "Very well. We'll let you know when we get home safely."

They pick up the bags of their gifts, and Dimitri politely nods in Felix's direction. At least it seems he's finally got the message.

Felix closes the door behind them with a short "Drive safe," and then they're gone.

Now, it's just him and Sylvain. Not twenty-four hours ago this was precisely what he was hoping for. Sylvain starts to speak.

"I've got to pack," Felix says to the floor, and he leaves for his room without an answer.

* * *

It’s been nearly two days since Felix has had a moment alone. He realizes this as he zips his suitcase closed. He looks between it, Sylvain’s bag on the floor, and his bed. Sylvain left it neatly made; Felix doesn't think he's bothered to do that since he lived with his family.

He lies down on his bed, pressing his face into the sheets, and, in an embarrassing moment of weakness, breathes in as if he'd smell anything other than the remnants of his detergent. He exhales slowly. He breathes in again.

Life has been so nonstop with his family here, it feels like he's still days behind the rest of the world, trying to process emotions he was meant to get over by now. Glenn defending Dimitri, his father's too-late parenting, Sylvain's damn book, Ingrid's— well, her everything. He's restless in a way he doesn't understand, like his body is contending with everything he's swept under the rug, only he can't seem to find anything when he checks there now. What should he even be feeling? How does anyone manage _living_ without weeks of time to just sit in their thoughts?

Frustrated, he rolls onto his side, his eyes naturally drifting to his cello in the corner. _I'm proud of you._ Please.

It'd be easier to accept that Felix isn't ready for his audition if he hadn't been working his ass off, but he _has._ Hours upon hours spent on drills, isolations, shaping phrases, studying performances. He hasn't felt this drive, this fear of missing something if he doesn't try that extra minute, in… too long. Maybe he's a fool to place so much on this audition, but it's more than that. It's the first time he's had a reason to play.

And for all the misery it causes him, he does love it. He does. He always has.

So it would be easier to accept that this will still fall from his fingertips if he wasn't rushing to catch it with every heartbeat he has. But he has, he is, and he still can't make it come together. Felix knows what a performer sounds like: effortless, keyed into every note and rest, giving life to the score. There's a barrier between finally achieving that and himself, and no amount of practicing is wearing it down. In the past, he'd have figured these pieces out in half the time. Now his technique never seems to be enough. It doesn't make _sense._

Felix's eyes flit to the suitcase and bag again. If Sylvain had never left, had never even started any of this, would things be different? If he had been put together when everything started to crumble, could he have caught it?

He rubs the heels of his hands deep into his eyes, relishing in the not-quite relief it brings. He's had enough of this.

He wheels his suitcase out to the living room. Sylvain, sitting on the couch with pen and journal in hand, looks up, his face betraying no emotion. Neither of them say anything. Instead, another cello solo fills the air.

"So is this one me too?" Felix asks, allowing himself bitterness.

Sylvain taps the end of his pen against the phone. "Not this one. I just like writing to the cello. Or any orchestra music, I suppose." Felix says nothing, and after a brief moment, Sylvain closes the journal and exhales slowly. "I take it that’s one of the things you're still mad about, then?"

"What do you think the other things are?" He asks, crossing his arms.

"Well…" he starts slowly, keeping his eyes trained on Felix. "Ingrid told me… what you told her… about us. And she's definitely mad," he laughs nervously, "So, I assumed the same for you."

Felix scowls at the wall. It only figures Ingrid would bring it up to him, even if it wasn't her business at all. "I'm not really mad about that anymore."

"Really?" Sylvain asks, eyebrows raising.

"Maybe. I don't know!" he snaps, fiddling with the suitcase handle. "I'm mad about your book."

"She mentioned that too."

"Fucking— of course," Felix mutters. "Look, there's so much that doesn't make sense." He sits on the other end of the couch and waves at Sylvain's phone. "Why do you even have a recording of me?"

Sylvain hesitates. He's been doing that so much more lately: pausing, waiting. He used to always have something to say, a line to sweet talk his way out of any conversation. Now, when Felix talks, he spends so much more time just considering his words. It's nearly unnerving.

Before saying anything, Sylvain pulls up the recording of Felix. He tenses again at his sound— too _stiff_ , damn— and Sylvain holds it out to him. Reluctantly, he takes it.

"At first, I really did just want to hear you play. I missed the music. It wasn't anything else. Until it suddenly was. This is embarrassing," a nervous huff, "but I probably listen to it three times a day. Maybe more."

Felix brow furrows in disbelief. "What? Why?"

"It's, uh, this part— this part, right here." He points at the screen as Glenn's face slowly relaxes into a smile. Felix in the video catches sight of him and rolls his eyes, but even he sees the rare fondness in the action. It's embarrassing to look at.

Remembering Dimitri's words, Felix pushes the phone back at Sylvain. "So?"

"So, right then, you sound," he pauses again, searching for a word. "Different. I don't know, I can't describe it. But it's brilliant," he insists.

"Nothing about that playing was brilliant. I mean it," he stresses, cutting off Sylvain's denial before he can even start. "There are countless recordings of professionals performing this."

"But none of those made me want to come home." Felix's breath catches in his throat, and Sylvain either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "It was your recording that made me miss New York and meals at your house with everyone crowded around the table. It made me miss all of this. It made me miss you."

Felix stares at him, mouth parted, and Sylvain looks across his face with intent, like he's looking for something hidden within it.

_Miss him?_

"So instead of saying anything at all to me, you wrote lies about me in your book? Because you _missed_ me," he sneers.

"Like I was just supposed to reach out!" Sylvain shoots back, voice raised to match Felix's. "I didn't think you wanted to hear from me!"

"It was _you_ who told me not to think of you."

"And what, so you didn't?" He asks, incredulous.

Felix scoffs, and dredges up a cruelty all-too-familiar. "No. I didn’t."

"That's a lie," Sylvain says with such finality it gives Felix pause. "You did think of me. I know it, because I thought of you."

Felix can't _handle_ this, can't handle Sylvain taking a brick to the careful explanations Felix has built like barricades around himself. He _hadn't_ thought of Sylvain. Not the one in front of him. Maybe he did think of the Sylvain who haunted his hometown and his memories, the first Sylvain he loved, but he was long gone. He was never real in the first place.

He takes in a slow, measured breath. "You don't get to be upset when I tell you the truth."

Sylvain tosses his journal onto the table and laughs without humor. "Well, I am. I'm upset."

"Why?"

Sylvain stares at him again, and Felix does not back down. "You tell me, Felix."

He thinks. The only reason he can come to that isn't deluded by his own foolish hopes is that Sylvain missed having a lovesick boy waiting for his call, but even then, he could get a hundred more the moment he tries. Felix didn’t think he had the power to upset Sylvain; he isn't convinced, still, that he did.

He turns away, and they sit in silence as Felix thinks. So much of his time with Sylvain has been under false pretenses that Felix is struggling to keep what's real and what's fake distinct. After all, he was just punished for that very slip-up of judgment.

"We're done lying," he says a moment after it occurs to him.

"We are?" Sylvain asks, quiet.

"Yeah. My family thinks we're dating." He glances at the floor. "Now they’re gone. We did it. So we're done."

"Oh," Sylvain says. "Yeah. I guess so."

They're quiet after that. Felix knows he should say something about _them,_ or answer Sylvain’s question, but he can't. He doesn't know what the feelings in his chest are.

"How is your book?" He asks instead. 

“So we’re done talking?” Sylvain says, more of a statement than a real question. Felix doesn’t answer. They’ve never talked about this. Sylvain shouldn’t anticipate anything else.

Maybe he realizes this, because he sighs and turns away from Felix. "The book’s nearly finished, actually." He waits, and then adds: "I’ll be able to leave soon."

He says it hesitantly, as though this wasn’t always part of the plan. Sylvain is leaving, as expected. It's a good thing; this means this will go back to how they were before. Felix should be relieved.

Yet it hurts, because Felix thought he would get to pretend for longer, because he did this to himself, because maybe the before isn't better after all.

"I see. Where are you going to go?"

"I don't know yet," he says honestly, familiarly. Felix nods. _Exactly as expected._ "You're not as happy as I thought you'd be," he continues.

"Why would I be happy you’re leaving?" Felix says, too off-the-cuff vulnerable for what he meant. Sylvain's mouth twitches downward. _Shit._ "Never mind. I have to practice."

Sylvain catches his wrist as he stands. "Wait." He worries his lip between his teeth. “Practice out here?”

“No,” he says immediately, pulling his arm back.

“Have you even practiced your excerpts in front of anyone?”

Felix doesn’t respond, and Sylvain’s chest puffs up with pride when he realizes he’s right. Felix hates that he recognizes the motion.

But he probably should practice for someone else. It’s been too long since he last performed; even if Sylvain didn’t have useful things to say, he would probably still learn things from just playing for someone. He keeps his mind on this line of reasoning, and not on the feeling of Sylvain’s fingers around his wrist.

“Fine. No commentary.”

Sylvain grins innocently. “None.”

* * *

As it turns out, Sylvain doesn’t speak incessantly to distract him. He doesn’t need to; his eyes on Felix are more than enough.

They shouldn’t be. Even if he’s not used to attention, a singular audience member is nothing compared to playing for a packed auditorium, let alone a class of your peers. Sylvain is one man who knows nothing about proper cello technique.

And yet, Felix can hardly keep his focus on the sheet music.

He starts the first piece easily enough. It’s a short excerpt from Bach’s first cello suite, because of course he’s expected to know it. Sylvain’s face lights up in recognition and Felix can only roll his eyes at his excitement. He expects Sylvain will get bored as he progresses, disinterested when he moves away from the notable pieces.

Instead, Sylvain’s attention only focuses.

It’s in the way his eyes never seem to leave Felix’s hands save for when they flicker across Felix’s face, how he gradually leans back into the sofa, his whole body angled towards Felix, unwavering in his focus. There’s an intensity in his stare when their gazes meet, and Felix stumbles through the next notes, shifting too far and landing out of tune. Sylvain tilts his head and Felix forces his attention back to the music.

"Stop," he mumbles. He can hear Sylvain's sly smile.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are," Felix insists. His mouth twists when he finishes the third excerpt. _There was no shape to those phrases, it was too static._

"I'm just watching you," Sylvain continues. "Is that an issue?"

_Yes._ "Not exactly."

"Good."

There's a smarmy grin across his face when Felix glares at him that only makes his pulse race quicker. This is becoming dangerous. It's too close, like when they were dancing; Felix isn't sure what's happening again.

"I can't focus with you…" he trails off, unsure of what he means to say.

"With me?" Sylvain repeats.

Felix exhales sharply, frustrated, and shuffles the music on his stand. "You're distracting."

Sylvain hums. "Teach me then?" Felix stares at him, confused, and he waves a hand and continues. "The cello. Just the basics. I'll sound so bad you won't be distracted after."

That idea makes no sense. Felix tells him this, and he laughs easily. "Come on! Please? How many times have I asked you?"

"Countless, probably," he admits. It isn't that Felix is against teaching him, it's that his cello is worth more than he is. He has good reason to keep it out of Sylvain's hands. But Sylvain keeps looking at him, so open and relaxed, and Felix would like to not feel so flustered by the sight. If anything, the fear of him breaking his cello might be enough to ruin… _whatever_ Felix is creating in his head between them.

And so he stands and gestures to Sylvain to take his spot. He does, all too happily, and carefully takes the cello from Felix when he moves to stand behind him. Swallowing thickly, Felix moves Sylvain's left hand to the neck and presses the bow into his other.

He quietly explains how to move the bow, guiding Sylvain’s wrist and elbow, but it's proving difficult to form sentences when he can still _feel_ Sylvain staring at him, like he's something to be studied and figured out.

He awkwardly clears his throat. "Are you even paying attention?"

"Very much so," Sylvain says with a nod. Felix looks down at him, disbelieving, and gets a smile in response. His lips look soft and smooth, and Felix knows what they feel like.

"Really?"

"Really."

Felix shakes his head to get control of his brain back. "Fine, then. This is called first position." He wraps his arm back around Sylvain’s shoulders and slides his hand up. It gets him too close, makes their heads side by side. If Felix moved just a few inches more, his cheek would be pressed against Sylvain's.

He must be losing his mind, because he’s convinced he can feel electricity buzzing on Sylvain’s skin, under the layers between them, as if it would course through and shock him if given one more point of contact. He breathes out, controlled and slow, trying to bring back the focus he has from years of concerts and recitals. That’s right, concerts, playing the cello, he’s teaching Sylvain to play.

Felix moves Sylvain’s hand down the neck of the instrument, helping him shift between notes. “And this is fourth. You, uh, shift between positions a lot with stringed instruments.” He’s acutely aware of his tongue in his mouth, how heavy and cumbersome it feels around his words. He starts to clear his throat again, but then Sylvain’s turning his head and whispering against Felix's ear.

"Am I doing this right?" He asks, sliding his hand back up the cello. His breath is hot across Felix’s jaw.

Felix knows he should pull away, should say something, but he can’t seem to move any part of him. His heart is thudding in his ears, and he knows where this is going now. He was stupid to pretend otherwise. But he doesn’t move, and Sylvain doesn’t move, like he has all day for Felix's answer.

Felix lets out a shaky breath, and Sylvain kisses his throat, just barely pressing his lips against him. It sends a shiver through him, wild and involuntary, and Sylvain does it again, more firm.

For that split-second, Felix is outside of his own self, like he is looking back as it happens, an observer in his own body. He is weightless. He feels a tug in his gut, like from the top of an arc on a swing set, floating in the air. Time is stopped, and in that brief and infinite moment, when gravity and sheer force of will are meeting as equals, letting go of their pulls on his body, Felix sees his and Sylvain’s trajectory: predictable, familiar, and breathtaking. He has been here before, and Felix knows this won't end well for him.

_Sylvain is going to leave again. He said it himself._

Felix feels himself breathe in. _I'll fall for him every time he comes back._

Sylvain turns more to kiss farther down his throat, flicks his tongue across his skin, and then all at once Felix is being pulled back down into Sylvain's presence. Felix pulls the bow out of Sylvain's hand and, after grabbing the cello as well, carefully lays them on the floor. The moment they're free, Sylvain's hands are on Felix, pulling his weight up and onto Sylvain's lap where the instrument was.

They stare at each other, inches away from one another's face, Sylvain’s eyes wide but focused. Felix doesn’t understand this hesitation, the amount of watching and waiting Sylvain’s doing. It makes sense when he does it— Felix has no idea what to do next without cues, after all. Sylvain’s always the one moving them forward. Felix’s eyes flicker to Sylvain’s mouth, neck, eyes again, and he’s overwhelmed by the flush that seems to be melting underneath Sylvain’s freckles, spreading to his ears and collar. He’s trying to decide if it’s a normal thing to lick after it when he shifts to get more comfortable and recognizes a pressure underneath him as he moves against it. Sylvain sucks in a sharp breath and his grasp on Felix tightens, his pupils pulsing, eyes dark. Felix half-consciously realizes he did that to Sylvain and his own arousal suddenly spikes at the thought.

"Tell me no," Sylvain whispers, breathless, "And I won't."

The word gets to the back of his throat and is stuck there. He thinks of the last time he didn’t say no, and the days and weeks and months after he wished he did— or, rather, wished he had _wanted_ to say no. But he didn't then.

And he doesn't now.

Instead, he leans down and kisses Sylvain. Sylvain moans and tilts his head, deepening the kiss. His chest tightens as he feels Sylvain's moan reverberate through him, sending a tidal wave through his muscles, making them clench and immediately fall to putty in its wake. 

_Oh,_ Felix thinks. _This is what kissing is._

Sylvain's hands slide up Felix's side, palms pressing up his torso above his shirt, and Felix shivers again at his touch, his breath hitching. He can feel Sylvain's mouth curl into a smile and he quickly mutters a sharp "Shut up," and bites his lower lip. Sylvain moans again.

"Sir, yes, sir," he says against Felix’s mouth. He presses his thumbs down just above Felix's hip bones, massaging him there as he presses his chest up against Felix's, moving his mouth up his jaw and to his ear. His breath ghosts over Felix's ear, and Felix breathes in harshly, pressing back down against Sylvain, making their chests completely flush against one another's.

"You're so hot, Fe," Sylvain purrs against him. The words make Felix's stomach tighten, and not in the tantalizingly electric way it had before. For just the slightest fraction of a second, he freezes, before pulling his head back and forming the most venomous glare he can manage.

"Take off my shirt."

Sylvain wastes no time, bunching the fabric in his hands and unceremoniously tugging it over Felix's head. His arms and head get caught in the fabric, and he squirms, letting out a noise that he hopes is more frustrated than embarrassed, but it melts into something unwieldy when he suddenly feels Sylvain's mouth, hot and wet, sucking at his nipple.

Filled with adrenaline, Felix finishes whipping his shirt off to look down and lock eyes with Sylvain as he sucks hard and flicks his tongue. Another noise, low and abrupt, breaks from him as he wildly grasps at Sylvain's shoulders, his _arms,_ his hair. The glint in Sylvain's eyes as he watches Felix unravel would be alone enough to haunt Felix’s memory, but then Sylvain goes and moans, eyelashes fanning across his cheeks as his eyelids flutter shut, and the sensation makes his hips stutter, pressing against Sylvain's dick again. The contact jolts through Felix, causing his hands to clench in Sylvain's hair of their own accord. Sylvain nearly whines around Felix, hands pressing low against Felix's abs to hold him there as his hips buck up against him.

Felix pulls Sylvain's head back, swallowing what must be a sense of arousal that comes when Sylvain's mouth makes a wet _pop_ when the suction breaks, and tugs on his hair to tilt his head back. He had opened his mouth to say something, but seeing the long length of Sylvain's neck, throat bobbing as he swallows, skin even brighter red beneath freckles— well, whatever thought he had is immediately forgotten.

He glances to Sylvain's eyes to find them blown wide, an irresistible hunger in them as Sylvain seems to wait for Felix's next move. Felix licks his lips unconsciously and watches as Sylvain's eyes track the motion. He gives another tug on Sylvain's hair and watches as pleasure flashes across his features, a low hum coming from his throat, his long, gorgeous throat.

"Your shirt, too," Felix says, his voice sounding rough even to his own ears. He half expects Sylvain to tease or snarkily comment _so demanding_ , but Sylvain nods quickly, eyes never leaving Felix's, and lets go of him to start unbuttoning his shirt.

Interesting.

By the time Sylvain gets to the third button, the whole ordeal has taken monumentally too long, so Felix moves his hands down to finish the rest. Despite his hands shaking, Felix manages to help Sylvain finish the buttons, and Sylvain promptly tugs it off his shoulders, casting it behind them. He wraps his arms around Felix and pulls his chest against his, fingers pressing up and down every inch of his back, his shoulders, his stomach. Felix trembles at the sensation, at the tenderness behind his firm presses. If he didn't know better, he would believe those touches to be true, would think the adoration shining through lust in Sylvain's eyes as he took in the sight of him was real, and not just what he was wanting to see.

"Fe—" Sylvain starts, but Felix presses his mouth against his, changing any words that would mock him in the coming days into a muffled sigh instead.

Felix licks along Sylvain's bottom lip as he rocks against him, his body threatening to spark fire at every point they touch. [He kisses Sylvain with every ounce of himself for what could be hours.](https://i.imgur.com/m1rpYUk.png) Their skin catches and tugs as they press against each other, and each time it makes Felix's fingers twitch, his legs clench, his mind swim. He feels ridiculous, almost, getting this drunk just off of the feeling of Sylvain's bare chest against his.

But, when he moves his mouth to Sylvain's neck and finally begins sucking and nipping at it, Sylvain lets out a loud, breathy whine, his hands moving to Felix's ass, and pulls him closer, closer, still. Felix nearly smirks against Sylvain's pulse, feeling comforted that he isn't the only one coming undone.

Felix licks up Sylvain's neck to the underside of his jaw and kisses there, nibbles on the shell of his ear. Sylvain makes another breathless noise, and, gripping Felix's ass like it's all he has left, he grinds Felix down against himself. Felix's dick finally presses against Sylvain's, and they both moan at the feeling. 

Felix leans just far back enough to look Sylvain in the eyes again. They're both panting, and Sylvain looks utterly wrecked. His hair is a mess, skin unevenly flushed, his mouth bright red and chin covered in saliva. Distantly, Felix thinks he himself can't look much better, although it would be a crime to say Sylvain looked anything short of beautiful like this.

Not breaking eye contact, Sylvain drags Felix down against himself again, and any remaining hesitation breaks between them. Sylvain curls up into Felix, mouth biting and lapping across his neck, his collarbone, his chest as they frantically grind against each other. Felix can feel Sylvain making bruises with how hard he's clutching his ass, and he would say something, but he's running his hands through Sylvain's hair, pulling each time their chests and hips slot _just_ right, and he can't be bothered to care.

No kiss is ever enough, and he knows he'll run out of breath for good before he's satisfied with Sylvain's mouth. Every inch of him feels alive, rhythmically pulsing with Sylvain, with every touch sending a ripple of pleasure through him. His hair, long since pulled out of its ponytail, is drenched against his back from his sweat. All he can feel, smell, and taste is Sylvain and his own lust, and he's gone from it. Sylvain is muttering nonsense praise into Felix's ear, _you're so good_ s and _fuck, Felix_ s, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he knows Sylvain is his.

All at once, Felix feels his nipple rub just right against Sylvain's, feels his dick throb as Sylvain all but falls out of the chair to press harder against him, and feels hot breath race across his neck, and he's shouting as he suddenly comes, shaking as his orgasm courses through him.

Sylvain praises him as he comes down, one hand in Felix's hair and another still pulling his ass down against him. Felix, sex-stupid and boneless, opens his eyes and looks down at Sylvain's utterly open and hungry expression. He presses his hand down Sylvain's unfairly hot body and glances down between them where Sylvain is still rutting against Felix.

Felix looks back at Sylvain, holding his half-lidded gaze. Then, as he reaches down and grabs the length of him through his pants, Felix spits out: "You're insatiable."

With a stunted moan, Sylvain comes, flexing and clenching in Felix's grasp. Felix strokes him through it until Sylvain's done, feeling awkward yet competent, and Sylvain collapses back against the chair and pulls Felix with him.

Felix tucks his head under Sylvain's chin, already feeling something entirely unwelcome yet familiar creep under his skin. Sylvain's chest is heaving underneath him, and he briefly hopes the warmth and motion will be enough to keep everything else at bay.

"Wow," Sylvain says after a few moments, voice wrecked. Felix grunts in response, focusing on the way he feels it reverberate through Sylvain beneath him. They lay there, Sylvain not seeming to mind that Felix's full weight is pressed against him, and slowly their breathing returns to normal. At some point Sylvain starts running his hand through Felix's hair, gently working out any knots, and the sensation coupled with his body coming down from its arousal means that the prevailing feeling in his mind and body is one of blissful exhaustion.

He's unsure how long they stay there, but Sylvain's shaking his shoulder, whispering about how his back is never going to recover if they don't move to a bed soon, _Felix,_ he's an old man. Hesitantly, Felix shifts and stands up. His ankle knocks against his cello, sending a quiet echo of a note through the apartment, and he tenses at the feeling of the absolute mess he's made in his pants.

In what he hopes is a somewhat subtle fashion, Felix adjusts himself as Sylvain stands. "This feels disgusting," Felix mumbles, doing his best to avoid thinking about all the things that sentence might mean. Sylvain laughs, voice still rough, and lazily wraps an arm around Felix's waist. He's still just as warm, but now Felix has to stop himself from pulling away from the action.

"No kidding," Sylvain says, smiling down at him. "I don't think I've come in my pants since I was a teenager." He wiggles his eyebrows, wrapping his other arm around Felix to turn him towards him, and Felix glances away.

"Yeah, whatever," he mutters. Despite how badly he just wants to revel in his afterglow and pass out for the night, Felix can't stop the harsh snap to reality Sylvain's stupid joke brings. Sylvain's done this countless times, with countless people, enough that what happened was juvenile at best.

Meanwhile, Felix is some defective person who only seems to do anything with a person it doesn't mean nearly the same thing to, who knows this about him and yet can't seem to be bothered to care.

Sylvain tugs on his hand. "Bed now?" He asks, a small, sleepy grin on his lips. Felix feels an exquisite and distinct knife of pain enter his heart as he commits the soft, open look on Sylvain's face to memory.

He nods jerkily and leads them to his room. Sylvain stops in the bathroom on the way to clean himself up, and it occurs to Felix he should do the same. He glances at his cello, sitting out of its case, bow tossed to the ground, and moves on autopilot to carefully pack it back in its travel case. He hears Sylvain approach behind as he finishes and quickly moves past him, closing the bathroom door again.

When he sees himself in the mirror, Felix realizes he's about to dissociate. He knows the face looking back is his, but it's foreign. The skin is still flushed, the hair's neatly finger combed and hangs around the shoulders, the eyes exhausted. He turns the faucet on and lets the cold water run over his hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

_Come on. You're better than this._

Felix opens his eyes again and splashes water on his face. He peels off his pants and underwear, and the feeling is gross enough that it marginally brings him back to himself.

"What the fuck am I doing?" he whispers to the empty bathroom. It's the question of the season.

He waits a moment, stupidly hoping for some clairvoyant explanation as to why he has decided to throw all the progress he's made in the past two years away because of Sylvain's infuriatingly addicting attention. When it's clear no answer is coming, he wipes himself down and grabs a clean towel to wrap around his hips, the flurry of emotions coursing through his too-fast heart feeling all-consuming and overwhelming.

He opens the bathroom door and Sylvain is standing there in one of Felix's orchestra camp t-shirts and a loose pair of flannel pants. He eyes the way Sylvain's arms and chests are surely stretching the fabric. It makes him feel weird.

"Felix?" Sylvain asks, seemingly unsure of the question he’s trying to ask. Felix blinks at him. Sylvain's eyebrows pinch together in concern and Felix hates it. "Everything okay?"

Felix promptly decides he can't do this right now. "Yes," he says, shortly. "I'm, uh. Tired."

Sylvain takes his hand. "Yeah, me too," he says quietly. They stand there for a moment, Felix afraid to meet Sylvain's eyes. He knows that if he lets Sylvain look too long, he'll see something Felix isn't ready to show.

"Well?" he starts carefully, "Are you going to just stand there or are you going to steal the sheets all night again?"

Sylvain lets out a surprised bark of a laugh. "Only you would talk about post-sex cuddles with so much contempt."

Felix rolls his eyes, feeling foolish about the futile spark of relief he gets when Sylvain confirms he thinks that was sex, too. "Shut up," he responds without his usual bite.

A few moments later, the two of them are laying on their sides, wrapped in Felix's sheets. Sylvain's arm is loosely thrown across Felix's waist, his other under Felix's head, hand curling back to play with Felix's hair once more.

There are a few moments of silence, which Felix hopes imply Sylvain is asleep. Felix, although exhausted, has no hopes for an easy time falling asleep tonight. He stares ahead, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, and looks at the new vinyl player Glenn gave him sitting on his desk. He wonders if his family would have seen this coming. Well, if they hadn't thought he and Sylvain were already dating, that is. He wonders if Ingrid will know, will put it together the moment she sees him again.

"You're thinking so loudly," Sylvain says from behind him, gently pressing a kiss to the back of his head. This time, Felix can't hide the way he tenses at the touch. He can feel the mattress shift as Sylvain sits up. His voice is somehow gentler when he asks, "Hey, what's wrong?"

Felix, briefly, considers telling Sylvain the truth.

"Nothing," he says, doing his best to look back at Sylvain with a neutral expression. It was a mistake, because he can see worry in the outline of Sylvain's features and he hates himself for it. But, more than that, he hates that Sylvain has the audacity to act concerned when Felix knows damn well that if he had just bothered to pay attention, to remember, he would know what is wrong.

"Nothing," he repeats. "Just trying to fall asleep." Sylvain looks at him for a moment, and Felix is grateful to be in the dark. Then, Sylvain shrugs, and drops back down onto his pillow.

"Alright, you dweeb."

Felix settles back onto his side, doing his best to focus on slowing down his breathing. He only has a few hours before he'll have to leave to catch his flight at this point, and he knows he should sleep for part of that. Quietly, he grabs his phone and sets an alarm.

After he places his phone back on the nightstand, Sylvain siddles closer behind him, and Felix can feel his arm tighten slightly around his waist.

"Goodnight, Fe."

Sylvain's voice is so honeyed and slow, Felix knows he's on the precipice of sleep. Hearing the nickname makes his stomach twist again, but this time he has nothing to distract from it. He had promised he wouldn't do this, wouldn't let Sylvain waltz back into his life and make him messy, vulnerable, and so, so in love again. Felix barely scraped along the last time he left; he isn't sure he'll manage even that now. It seems he has a knack for making shit promises when Sylvain is involved.

Quietly, with his breathing still carefully controlled, Felix begins to cry furious tears.

Sylvain doesn't stir.

* * *

Felix wakes an hour before his alarm. He slips out of his bed and into the living room without waking Sylvain. He is eternally grateful that yesterday's Felix at least made the good decision to pack ahead of time, and he changes into new clothes from his suitcase. He slings his cello case over his shoulder and carefully lifts the suitcase and carries it to the door, wary of even the wheels making too much noise. It feels like it is only when he is on the other side of the locked door that Felix can finally breathe.

He isn't running away. It isn't comparable. But it feels that way.

_Fuck you, Sylvain._

He has a flight to catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For skipping sexual content: when you reach the line "Instead, he leans down and kisses Sylvain" skip ahead to "Felix tucks his head under Sylvain's chin."
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting! :^) We're back to weekly updates again. I'm sorry for the things I do to Felix. Sort of.
> 
> Follow [me](https://twitter.com/sunsetdawnOnTwi) and [Lorelei](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei) on Twitter!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter has even more incredible art from Lorelei. [Check out her work here!](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei)
> 
> Additionally, here's a gentle heads up that Felix struggles more with some self-worth issues and a short period of dissociation in this chapter. Do what you need to read safely!

When he lands in Chicago, Felix has two missed calls and a text from Sylvain. Instead of opening them, he calls Ferdinand. As it rings in his ear, he drags his suitcase over the smooth tile floors of the airport and feels too awake, too sensitive to the presence of each stranger in the sea of the crowd around him. He hadn’t exactly slept during the flight, but he dozed enough to make consciousness seem sharp and hostile to the rest of his body.

The call drops without an answer. Felix angrily taps through the menus to call again and realizes he’s about to walk out without grabbing his cello from the baggage claim.  _ Felix, get it together. _

The call doesn’t go through once more, and Felix huffs and snatches his case from the carousel. There are too many people around him crowding for their things and Felix is one duffel bag hit to the side from losing it in this airport. Then, his eyes land on Mercedes waiting outside arrivals, and things uncharacteristically quiet down in his peripheral. She smiles serenely, and Felix moves to her without thought. He even lets her hug him with minimal complaint.

“Your hair,” he mumbles, taking in its short length as they pull back. Mercedes chuckles.

“Felix, I cut it a year ago,” she teases. Felix crosses his arms.

“I haven’t seen you since you moved.”

She tilts her head in thought. “I suppose it was after you deleted Instagram, hm?” She loops her arm through his and tugs him along until he gets the clue. He follows her towards the subway attached to the airport; the crowd doesn’t thin, but it’s that much more manageable when he isn’t the one having to navigate it. “That just means we’ll get to catch up, then,” she continues over her shoulder. “There’s a lovely café right by our apartment. Ferdinand will meet us there, if that’s fine for you?”

Felix nods, adjusting his luggage so the wheels of his suitcase won’t catch on the long skirt flowing behind her. She leads them through the flow of people and insists on buying his ticket.

“Where is Ferdinand, anyway?” He asks after an awkward silence drags. He rarely hung out with Mercedes alone. Stepping back into small talk with mutual friends feels especially clunky with her, like he’s not quite sure which topics were ever appropriate. He figures her husband can’t be much of a sore subject.

“Some of the violinists are volunteering with a youth orchestra day. It was a last minute thing,” she explains, fondness blatant in her tone. Distantly, he realizes it can’t be long until the two of them have children of their own, and he’s baffled to think that’s their reality. They’re only two years older than him, but there’s no world in which Felix will be married, gainfully employed, and planning for children by the time he reaches their age. It makes him feel woefully inadequate and he isn’t even sure if those things are meant for him in the first place.

He makes a noncommittal noise and steps onto the train, moving to the end of the car to stand huddled between his belongings with Mercedes. His phone rings. Sylvain’s contact photo taunts him underneath the call buttons. He swallows thickly and lets it go to voicemail. Felix can’t let anything distract him in the coming days, and whatever shit Sylvain’s got to say is at the top of his list to avoid.

“I’m surprised you didn’t pick up,” Mercedes says from his side. Felix instinctively pulls his phone back to his chest, and she giggles. “My apologies; I didn’t intend to look.”

“It’s fine,” he mutters. He opens a group chat his brother has created and types:  _ Made it. Busy with Ferdinand and Mercedes. Won’t be on my phone to focus. _ He turns off his phone after hitting send, and Mercedes’s words catch up to him. “Wait— why are you surprised?”

Mercedes raises a shoulder in a shrug. “You’ve always picked up Sylvain’s calls.”

“Don’t remind me,” he says with a groan. Mercedes tilts her head again, and Felix hates how unassuming she looks when he can feel her trying to pry something out of him. He won’t give her the satisfaction of getting him to talk.

She hums thoughtfully.

“I’m done doing that now,” he blurts, because Mercedes is some sort of witch.

“I can see that,” she says with a grin.

“And there’s no reason worth talking about,” he adds warily. 

She nods. “So Annie tells me you’ve been keeping her from hypothermia?”

It takes Felix a second to understand the question. She waits patiently, and Felix stumbles to catch up to her graceful change in topic. He isn’t used to people actually dropping the subject when he asks. Why didn’t he spend more time with Mercedes, again?

“Yeah,” he says. “She acts like layers are some great secret.”

“I’m glad I introduced you two. I was worried she’d be lonely at UB.”

Felix snorts. “Have you met her?”

Mercedes giggles again. “Sometimes we worry most about those who don’t need it.”

He doesn’t really understand, but he nods anyway. It’s a breath of fresh air to talk about anyone else; he isn’t going to complain.

* * *

That evening, Ferdinand and Mercedes give him a tour of their impeccably put-together apartment and set his bags up in a guest room with a bed larger than the one back at Ingrid’s apartment. When Ferdinand hands over a spare key, Felix dreams of what a CSO paycheck would open for him: he could rehair his bow, pay back his student loans in a few years, maybe even help Glenn with his medical bills if he’d shut up about it afterwards. He could get his own apartment.

That last one shouldn’t be such a jolting thought. Of course he could— he’d have to. It’d be hard to play in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra from Buffalo. He’s surprised it is only now occurring to him.

He pockets the key. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. Ferdinand beams and places his hands on either of Felix’s shoulders.

“Of course. It’s our pleasure. I only apologize that we’ll both be out at times; I feel terrible that we’re leaving you to your own devices.”

Felix rolls his eyes. They had already spent nearly thirty minutes apologizing that they’re working adults who can’t drop everything to show him the city (though they phrased it much more kindly). “It’s really fine. I’ll be practicing anyway.”

“Of course, foolish of me to think we’d be able to separate you and your cello for long,” Ferdinand says with a wink. Felix huffs. He wasn’t  _ that _ single-minded in undergrad. “Would you like to practice your excerpts for us, then?”

The thought of playing for Sylvain appears in his mind, unbidden. He shakes his head.

“No. I’m fine.”

* * *

The silver envelope Sylvain gave him sits in the middle of his clothes like a burning needle in a haystack. It's utterly ridiculous that he's afraid of finding something in his own damn suitcase, so the next morning he plucks the tickets out without looking and places them on the table where Mercedes and Ferdinand are eating with perhaps too much force, seeing as Ferdinand nearly spills his tea.

"Good morning," Mercedes says easily, picking a ticket up with interest.

"Thank you again for letting me stay," Felix mumbles. "These are for you."

Ferdinand slides the other back across the table. "Felix, please, you truly don't need to thank us."

"I do," he says, not budging.

"Then I insist you come to our performance tonight." After he says it, Ferdinand's face lights up with pride. "It's brilliant! You can see us play and envision it during your audition. Mercedes, dearest, would you like to attend as well?"

"I haven't agreed to this," Felix points out. Mercedes smiles softly at her husband, completely ignoring Felix's reasonable point.

"I would love to. Felix, I can show you my favorite dinner spot beforehand!"

Felix crosses his arms and sits down with a huff. "You know now I'll have to get you something else?"

Ferdinand beams. "This is not a competition I can allow you to win."

"It's quite useless trying," Mercedes adds. "The last time I did, it ended with an engagement, after all."

They look at each other with quiet adoration, and Felix manages to keep his eye roll to a minimum.  _ Gross. _

* * *

Felix starts playing the moment they leave, and he doesn't stop until he physically has to. He drills the pieces, separate and together, he practices walking in and turning everything off except the part of him that was made for playing. He plays again, and again, and again.

He forces himself through late beats and sharp shifts as best he can. When he's playing for real he can't redo it, so he can't do that here either. He's aware of this, and yet it's near impossible for him to shrug off mistakes and continue when he  _ knows  _ he could have played it correctly. Felix knows the music, he can hear how it should sound. Doing anything less than that means he isn't trying hard enough.

So he keeps playing. If the only option is perfection, that's what he'll do.

An hour later, he slices open a blister on his index finger and bleeds across his cello.

As he tears another wad of toilet paper off a roll and presses it into his finger, Felix fights the urge to shout until his throat feels sore. It’s going to take at least the night to scab over, and playing isn't an option until he heals.

Great.

* * *

If there is any consolation to throwing away hours of key practice time, it is that he sits down in the Symphony Center without an overwhelming guilt that he could be playing. It isn't much consolation, but it is something. Mercedes eyes the Batman bandage around his finger when he takes off his gloves and raises a teasing eyebrow.

"You know we have first-aid not just for my students?"

Felix bristles and hides his hand in his lap. "I wasn't sure where to look."

Mercedes chuckles softly. "Sure. Are you excited?"

Instead of answering her, Felix shrugs and sits lower in his seat. On one hand, he is. The CSO is brilliant and he hasn't heard live music of any sort in months. It was always invigorating, to hear music as it was meant to be heard, and he's sure that will be the case tonight.

On the other hand is a flimsy child's bandage and Felix's sneaking suspicion that hearing a proper cello performance might tip him over the edge.

Felix flips through the program to distract himself and sees pieces he's generally excited about; Saint-Saëns, amongst other Romantic era composers. At least it'll be a good performance that takes him out.

The lights dim, and beside him Mercedes sighs, content.

As the CSO enters and begins to play, nothing is done to assuage Felix's mounting anxieties about his audition. But it isn't for the reasons he expected. It is not because he's out of his league, but because it isn't until Felix is sitting in the auditorium, feeling the energy of the orchestra and the crowd buzzing back and forth that he realizes how desperately he  _ misses _ it. He misses playing with brilliant musicians, the sensation of being attuned to a beat with fifty people, of breathing in sync and decorating the time and space around you with sound. He's looking at living and realizing he hasn't been.

He hasn't for… he doesn't know how long. But now that he's seeing it in front of him, Felix needs that spot on the stage.

No. He  _ wants _ it.

* * *

The intermission begins before Felix remembers to breathe. He nearly forgets he's with company until Mercedes chuckles to his side.

"It's a wonderful performance, no?" She asks. Felix nods forcefully, all of his thoughts rushing to his throat at once.

"They have such a cohesive sound. Even from phrase to phrase, they fill it with such color, but it's distinctly  _ them _ at every moment. And—” he falters, remembering himself. "Yes," he finishes weakly.

"Please, don't stop on my account," she says with a coy smile. Felix feels his face heat; she's just being polite now.

"No, that's all," he mumbles. Mercedes purses her lips and sits back in her chair.

"Well, if you have more thoughts, I've always enjoyed listening to you all discuss your concerts."

"I didn't know you liked symphonies very much," Felix admits. He doesn't remember seeing much of her around their concert hall. Not until she and Ferdinand started dating, anyway.

"Of course. Just as much as any other music, really." She pauses a moment and looks up at the moulding of the ceiling, her eyes squinting as if she's looking for something in particular. "I suppose, with symphonies, it's just watching someone you love do what  _ they  _ love that is so entrancing, for me."

Felix makes a noncommittal hum and flips open the program again. He sees Ferdinand's name listed under the second violinists and feels a silly spark of pride for his friend, in the middle of everything else in his chest.

"You understand, don't you?" Mercedes asks a moment later.

It takes another second for him to understand the question. Watching someone you love do what they love. He's unable to stop the mental images of Sylvain from resurfacing. Him writing in a frenzy was never particularly enjoyable to Felix, nor was happening upon him asleep on his journal in the middle of the night. But catching him idly writing on mornings when Felix was getting ready for a shift, or stepping out from practice to see him and Ingrid reading silently in one another's company. It had softened something in him, maybe. Now it feels fractured and sharp.

He thinks of Sylvain watching him play once more. That is what Felix loves more than anything. But Sylvain didn't look anything like Mercedes does now. It's his own damn rose colored hopes wanting to find something else there.

Mercedes is waiting for an answer. Felix doesn't want to talk about this anymore, especially not with someone who's gotten everything people their age could dream to hope for.

"What's it like, having it all together?" He asks before he can stop himself. Mercedes looks understandably taken aback.

"What do you mean?"

Felix twists the program in his hands. "Well, everything. You've got your dream job in music ed, a beautiful apartment, this perfect marriage to the love of your life…" he trails off, scrunching his nose up. "It's hard not to see. You have the ideal life at 24."

She doesn't look upset, not exactly, but she looks back at the stage without really seeming to see anything. "I don't think that's true."

Felix chuckles once in disbelief. "Am I wrong about any of that?"

"You claim it's ideal only because of what you can easily see." She glances at him. "You know, this is the first time since we've moved here that I've had someone to accompany me to one of Ferdinand’s performances."

That, while admittedly isn't something he would have guessed, doesn't seem particularly relevant to his argument. Mercedes must sense his disbelief, as she continues: "I haven't made a single friend in Chicago. Mostly, I just work, and volunteer when I can. And I do love that, yes, and Ferdinand and I have each other. But most days, I'm just lonely."

She sighs and folds her hands in her lap. "Truthfully, Felix, I'm actually envious of you. You are surrounded by so many people who know you so well. I miss that feeling."

"You don't understand."  _ You don't want this feeling. You get to breathe and wish to have my suffocation. _ Felix frowns at the floor. "I'm only there because I don't have anything else."

"People who love you can be quite a bit to have, if you let them be."

It's insulting to him that Mercedes pretends she has any idea about the love in Felix's life. "So what, Ferdinand isn't enough?" he snaps.

The patience drops from Mecedes's face in a heartbeat. "I love Ferdinand more than anyone. He brings me an incredible happiness. But no one person can be someone's everything; that is hardly fair to them. It doesn't reflect upon him or our relationship at all."

Her heavy tone drags Felix's stomach down with its weight. "I didn't…" he tries. "That isn't what I wanted to say."

"Good. It would have been terribly rude of you if it was."

He thinks she's teasing him again, but he honestly isn't sure, which makes it all the more frightening. He really never should expect anything from her.

He clears his throat awkwardly. "Uh, well… I'm sorry you're lonely. For what it's worth."

Her expression shifts to contemplative again as the lights dim once more. "Thank you. I really am glad to have you visiting us." The corner of her mouth lifts up. "For what it's worth."

* * *

Despite his insistence on wanting to focus on practicing, Ferdinand and Mercedes still drag him to see parts of Chicago during the next few days. He wants to hate it and have a bad time, so that it will be easier to accept if he doesn't win the seat. He wants it to be impossible to see himself here.

It isn't, though.

* * *

The morning of Felix's audition, Ferdinand makes him an absurdly large breakfast with extra helpings of sausage and bacon. He doesn't have the stomach for it today, but he appreciates it all the same.

"You'll be splendid," Ferdinand says for the fifth time as he finishes pulling on his coat. "Just spectacular!"

"Goodbye, Ferdinand," Felix says, amused despite himself.

When they leave for the day, Felix finally turns on his phone again to triple check his confirmation email for this timeslot. He is barraged with notifications and his phone vibrates incessantly with each new ping as it catches up from the previous days. Frowning, he quickly taps each message thread to cut off the stream of updates. Dimitri and Ingrid each wished him good luck. His brother and father have sent a photo of them giving obnoxious thumbs-ups. (Really, only Glenn is obnoxious. His father is just… his father.) Even Annette and Ashe have sent something. He doesn't respond to any of them, nor does he read through the dozens of messages he's missed; he already has wasted too much time on this when he just needed to check an email.

It's just a coincidence he realizes this when Sylvain's messages are the only ones left unopened.

* * *

Outside of the door to the rehearsal space where his audition is about to be held, Felix feels an eerie stillness. It isn't quite calm so much as it is uncanny: an awareness of an absence, but not what once filled it.

He adjusts the sleeves of his suit. It's unnecessary, but it helps him pretend he's gathering some part of himself. With a slow breath, he opens the door and steps onto the plush carpet leading him to a chair set up next to a heavy black curtain. On the other side of it sits the committee. Only that fabric divides him and the people deciding his future.

Felix wants to clear his throat, but swallows it soundlessly instead. The only noise they should hear is his cello.  _ And it needs to be good, _ he reminds himself.

He carefully adjusts the instrument as he sits, and his knee knocks out a quiet echo of a note into the empty side room. He breathes slowly again. This part doesn't matter. It doesn't until he starts.

He puts bow to string. The first excerpt is Bach. Only Bach.

He starts.

Playing on a stage, even one without as rich acoustics as the main one, is invigorating. It's as if he can hear his cello's sound more truly, like it had been waiting to be heard in proper acoustics.  _ This is what you’re meant to hear. _

Once upon a time, this is what playing always sounded like. His music was surrounded by people who understood it, in a space built for this moment. He spent the year so far detached that he couldn’t even compare the two, but now that he’s here, it feels  _ right. _ He’s focusing on the music, and nothing else, and the elation that comes from performing is so overwhelming that he can hardly think at all.

The momentum pushes him forward through it before he realizes he's nearly done. Even when he messes up a fingering, just one at the end, it doesn't even seem as harsh as it did in the drowning walls of his bedroom.

The last note rings out, and Felix grins.

Then, he makes the mistake of thinking about the judges. They're taking notes on his conclusion. Surely they're docking him for his mistake. Would it be negligible, or had no other auditionee missed a single aspect? Is he the first mistake they’ve heard?

His throat tightens; he has only just begun. He can't afford another slip up with an opening like the one we had. He has to be perfect.

_ Can you be? _

The second excerpt doesn't sound joyous. It hardly sounds like the piece at all; Felix's bow hits the wrong string with the first measure, and it cuts harsh into the melody he has only barely begun. Glenn is going to ask how it went and Felix is going to have to point to this moment as to why he didn't get the spot.

He fumbles through more measures and shifts too high. He's going to have to continue to freeload off of Ingrid and waste his prime learning years playing for and with no one. He can't even play for Sylvain, who looks at him nothing like the way Mercedes does Ferdinand, and Felix has no idea where he is in the excerpt.

His hands freeze. He stops playing.

Papers rustle, barely perceivable. There is so much silence in such an empty, empty room, and Felix isn't playing. He's standing a foot behind himself, trying to move his own arms, but he can't move the dead weight that hangs there. He sees Sylvain in the empty chairs, planning his next exit, and he smiles at Felix and asks if he'd play for him again one day.

He can't play. He can't stop the shaking in his lungs or the static noise where the notes should be or Byleth's disappointed sigh playing again and again and again.

Felix doesn't know if he even attempts the last excerpts.

The walk out of the hall is automatic. All his brain supplies is:  _ walk forward, don't fall, you fucked up, don't drop that, you lost your chance, it's this room, you fucked up, you fucked up, it was just you and you fucked up. _

He grabs his rosin from his case and throws it full-force against the wall with a shout. It shatters. He throws his spare. It cracks and falls on top of the rest of the amber shards, unused and useless. His shoulders shake as he stares at it.

Useless.

* * *

Because Felix is a damn open book, Mercedes and Ferdinand can tell he's a pathetic excuse for a musician as soon as he opens the door. Felix keeps his eyes trained on anything other than their sorry faces. After a moment’s hesitation, Ferdinand stands and closes the door behind Felix.

“Are you being harsh on yourself?” Ferdinand asks. Felix snorts, offering no further response. “Well, even if you aren’t. You know I lost auditions for nearly two years before this one, yes?”

“That’s different,” Felix insists darkly. His throat is scratchy. It sounds wrong to his ears. “You were still performing. You were still  _ good.” _

“Felix,” Ferdinand says, having the gall to sound offended on Felix’s own behalf. He snorts again. “You are plenty talented, you simply fell short of your own expectations today. It’s unrealistic to expect to play perfectly all of the time.”

“But if I can’t even play decently?” he snaps, voice rising. Ferdinand’s frown furthers, and Felix groans and runs a hand over his face. It figures that Felix would take a terrible day and make it worse for everyone. “If I can’t even get through an excerpt, especially when it  _ matters? _ What even is the point of me playing this damn instrument?”

To punctuate his point, he shoulders the case off his back and tosses it to the ground. It collides with the floor with a heavy thump. He can’t even be bothered to worry about the thing; it’d serve him right if his cello somehow got damaged through the padding.

Mercedes approaches and rights the case, standing it up on its side. “Why  _ do _ you play the cello, Felix?” She asks. Her gaze rises to him, and he hears the education training in her steady and patient silence. He can't handle being patronized right now.

“Maybe I shouldn’t anymore," he says, dark and too honest.

She tilts her head. What follows is a judgment free question: “Are you sure that’s the answer?”

No. Felix isn’t sure of anything anymore. The cello was the only foundation he had. With that being questioned too, he isn’t sure what makes him  _ Felix _ anymore. Is there anything worth it in him, anyway?

He picks his case back up and tries to push down the disgusting self-pity with a deep breath. “Thank you both for letting me stay here. I’m going to sleep.”

Ferdinand pats his shoulder as he leaves. It isn’t meant to be condescending, but Felix feels the twinge of shame in it anyway.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t sleep.

* * *

The next day, Felix stands outside of Ingrid’s apartment for a long, long time.

He left Chicago with very little inside. His thank yous to Mercedes and Ferdinand sounded hollow, and their insistence he come back for a longer trip bounced around his chest, reminding him just how much he had enjoyed the city, despite it all. It was foolish of him to think about himself there; Felix knows very well that him and wanting are not meant to go together.

The second largest testament to that fact is on the other side of this door. He spent the entire flight searching for words to try and make this final disappointment as quick as possible and wound up with none. Instead, he has a void that’s consuming him from the core outwards and leaving him with an empty, simmering rage.

Sylvain’s head snaps up when Felix opens the door. He’s sitting on the floor, entirely surrounded by sheets of paper covered in scribbles. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Felix registers that music is playing.

“Hey,” Sylvain says.

_ Hey. _ Felix wrinkles his nose and kicks aside a balled up piece of paper as he steps inside. Sylvain keeps talking. “I know it’s a mess, trust me, I meant to— I was going to clean it before you got back.” He hurries to his feet and just beams at Felix, full of energy and warmth and everything Felix isn’t. Felix looks back at the writings across the room.

“I called when you landed, but then I got carried away,” Sylvain admits. He gestures at the papers, as if Felix could have missed them. “Uh, that doesn’t matter, though, how are you? How did it go?”

Felix scans the papers, not reading a single word. It’s more than he’s ever seen Sylvain write. Felix had been unable to play, unable to function because of Sylvain and his shitty, flighty intimacy, meanwhile he had been  _ inspired. _ It didn’t even matter to him that Felix hasn’t said a word to him since he left.

He feels the void in his chest supernova: collapse, explode. The last of what remains comes crashing down when he finally accepts it: all he’s ever been was Sylvain's disposable muse.  _ What awards do you think he’ll get for this story? _

He breathes slowly. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Oh. Well, it’s okay if it didn’t go well—” 

“No!” Felix snaps. Sylvain stops abruptly, startled, and Felix throws the door shut behind him. “I don’t want to talk to  _ you, _ because every time I do, you find a way to make my life irrevocably worse.”

Confusion washes over his face. “I don’t understand.”

“If you ever bothered to stick around, you would, because it’s easy to see,” he scoffs. He steps further inside, but Sylvain moves with him, holding his hands up like he’s trying to coax Felix into staying put.

“I’ve been trying to apologize,” Sylvain says in a rush. His voice makes an impressive attempt at remorse. “What’s bringing this on? I know I messed up—” 

“Do you? Because I’m not just talking about you leaving the country. You’ve  _ always _ done this.”

"What?"

“All the time, it’s always the same shit with you." Felix slams his cello case onto the floor so he can get close to Sylvain when he glares. "You only care when you remember I exist, and then in the blink of an eye you get distracted by a shiny new person and drop me, you drop everyone. Every time you left, you were— you’d be unreachable, for  _ weeks. _ I thought your phone fucking broke when you left for school!"

Felix is aware that he’s yelling, but he can’t seem to stop, not until Sylvain fucking gets it and feels as horrible as he should. He snatches a page of Sylvain’s writing, crumpling it in his hands, and shoves it against Sylvain’s chest. “You said you write what you see, but only when it hits you?  _ If _ you remember? That’s your fucking problem. You see everything, somehow, and then you just look away when you’ve had enough.”

Sylvain tries to say something, but Felix can’t stop even if he wanted to. “You’ve never stayed dedicated to a thing, to a person, your entire life. You’re just impulse and observation. The mere idea of consistency, of commitment—” Felix’s voice breaks— “is lost on you. Stupid infatuation is all you can offer, and that’s not enough for some of us, Sylvain, for our art or for our relationships. I am  _ through _ with letting you have your way with me until you get bored and leave again.” He leans in and shoves Sylvain’s chest away from him. “You are careless, and thoughtless, and I’m tired of you pretending like I’ve ever meant anything to you.”

“Just because you refuse to let people care about you doesn’t mean we don’t!” Sylvain yells back, crueler than Felix has heard him in years. He’s finally made him snap.  _ Good. _ Sylvain steps into Felix’s space and glares down at him. “You’d just rather pretend your life is miserable and out of your own control than actually do something about it, so you act like no one else gives a shit, either.”

“I don’t see anyone here who cares about me,” Felix says through gritted teeth.

“That’s rich, Felix,” Sylvain chuckles darkly. He steps back and knots his hands in his hair and groans, frustrated. “Are you even listening to me? I’m saying I care about you.”

“And why should I believe you? You’ve made a habit of saying whatever you need to fuck me before you leave.”

Sylvain freezes. “I don’t do that.”

“You do. Even though you  _ know _ I don’t do that with other people. That shit matters to me.” His voice doesn’t waver. It doesn’t.

Sylvain drops his hands and holds them out, palms up. “Who says it doesn’t matter to me too?”

“You! You say that every time you throw someone to the side after you get whatever you want from them!”

Felix’s breath is coming in short pants. Something wicked in him flares with a realization. “You’re incapable of loving someone. Everyone just pretends otherwise. But you know it, and I know it.”

He has never thought those words before, but he doesn’t think he regrets them. Sylvain stares at him, mouth barely open, and the scornful part of Felix wants to say something else, wants to push him further.

“Well?” He snaps. Sylvain stares more.

Then he blinks, and walks past him. Felix watches him go, fury still buzzing in his veins. They aren’t done yet. “Where are you going?” He yells after him. Sylvain emerges from Felix’s room with his bag thrown over his shoulders and his jaw set. He ignores Felix and shoves his feet into his shoes. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Sylvain meets his glare with empty, cool eyes. “What do you think?”

He opens the door. Felix is rooted to the spot. “Sylvain.”

Sylvain waits, but Felix is lost as to what he even wants to say. The moment passes, and Sylvain smiles humorlessly.

“Aren’t you happy? I'm proving you right.”

The door kicks up papers when it's swung shut. Anger surges through him again, and Felix balls up all the pages he can see into a crumpled mess. Bitterly, he thinks it is what Sylvain deserves if he ever thinks about coming back: the words and people he left behind no longer waiting for him.

Felix shoves the papers into the trash bin, knocking the lid off, and stares down into it. The scent of rotting garbage is pushed up from whatever lies below the pages, and although he recoils, he stands over it, still, stuck staring into the mess he's thrown away.

* * *

That night, Felix is too miserable to drink. Instead, he turns on a livestream of the local news channel and watches the clock tick down as a crowd of happy people cheers and embraces. He mutes the sound and watches the New Year start.

He is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')
> 
> [My twitter](https://twitter.com/sunsetdawnOnTwi) and the artist [Lorelei's](https://twitter.com/loreleimelodei)!


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